by J. F. Holmes
She did know. When the dazzlers went off, 360 degree holo was taken, capturing the faces and features of everyone caught in it. The Invy registration archives used facial recognition software to identify the people behind the attack, and was usually successful against irregulars. It was their standard response, the kinetic equivalent of dropping a two thousand pound bomb on the family of anyone responsible. It was why the CEF forces operated so quietly, avoiding conflict, and why it was so hard to get people to cooperate. Last year, outside Boston, she had been on an intelligence gathering operation that had gone bad, trying to steal some tech; the Invy had actually pulled out of one of the safe towns and turned it into a giant crater. Five thousand people, gone in an instant, after a shootout. She and Zivcovic had only survived because they had been outside, providing overwatch, as they had been tonight.
“OK, but not too close. You’re a little brash, Sasha,” she said, concern and caring leaking into her voice.
He grinned a skull like grin, and said, “I do not know this English word, brash, but I like it. Sounds tough, like me.”
_______________________
Jeremy had run as fast as he could, blinded by the Invy lights, tripping over debris in the road, and finally falling and rolling down the side of the highway. As he did, a plasma bolt took off his leg just below the knee, and real darkness overcame him. The last thing he had seen, before the Dazzler had struck him, was Tommy, standing to fire, and his friend’s head vanishing in a puff of red tinged steam.
Now he lay face up in a ditch on the side of the road, run off from a stream washing over him, and cried bitter tears, sobbing incoherently. He had fallen through some dense overgrowth, to land with a muted splash, and the cool water had woken him slightly. Jeremy pulled himself downstream to where a drain pipe crossed under the road, and used the last of his strength to slide inside. His leg felt numb and burning at the same time, confused signals from the cauterized limb rocketing through his brain, and like a wild, wounded animal, he sought some deep hole to die in.
Others had found shelter there before, and twenty feet into the darkness, his blind hands encountered bones, and what he finally made out be a skull. He gave up then, and passed out.
_______________________
As Zivcovic and Reynolds watched from their hidden perch a few hundred meters away, more than an hour after the attack, two wolverines, accompanied by a gold armored Dragon, slowly made their way up the road, one sniffing at the ground. The furred creature suddenly yipped and turned off the road, towards them. The other trooper dropped to all fours, slinging his plasma rifle across his back, and followed. The Dragon stayed on the road, but hissed orders at them. They barked back, and started to follow the ditch downstream.
“They’re telling the Dragon they have a scent trail. Looks like one got away,” said Reynolds. Zivcovic had never bothered to try to understand the yips, barks and growls that were the wolverine language, but Reynolds had made a passionate study out of it.
“Well, he’s dead now,” answered the non-com.
“Probably,” she whispered back. They were peering out from under IR neutral blankets, downwind of the enemy. The Invy troops had reached what looked like a culvert that cut back under the road, and engaged in a bit of an argument. Then they started back towards the Dragon.
Zivcovic raised his carbine; the sniper rifles were broken down and stashed with the horses, five hundred meters over the next rise. “We can take them,” he muttered, almost as much to himself as to her.
“We can’t,” she whispered. “Right now, they can write it off to a bunch of stupid kids, or bandits, especially with that body on the road. A secondary ambush is going to bring a world of shit down on this whole area.” God, he was a bloodthirsty bastard. His rifle tracked across them for a few seconds more, then lowered.
“They said something about old death and new death,” said Reynolds. “Looks as if our friend made it into the culvert and died. They like their meat live, and fresh. By the time they dig his carcass out, it will be a couple hours old, not worth it.” The three Invy made their way back down the highway, entered one of the vehicles, and drove north toward Syracuse, leaving the other APC sitting idly, fusion plant turning over.
A furious argument erupted between the sniper and her boss. Zivcovic wanted to search the battle site for possible dropped Invy tech, including weapons; Reynolds cautioned him that the AI aboard the idling APC would, in her words, smoke the shit out of them when they got within a hundred meters. That and the patrol would return in an hour with a new crew for the abandoned track. He ignored her protestations and slid out from under the blanket, quickly moving in a crouch through the same stream bed the wolverines had explored earlier.
Reynolds cursed and hustled after him; scouts never deserted their partners. They had just reached the drain pipe, and were about to climb up onto the road itself, when a low groan echoed out of the pipe.
“Wait!” exclaimed Reynolds, and she bent down to listen at the opening. She heard it again, a pain-filled, quiet sound. If they had been any later, the birds singing at dawn would have hidden it. She put her carbine down and crawled into the tunnel, further and further, until her now lit headlamp showed a single boot, surrounded by bones.
“Ziv!” she called back down the tunnel. “He’s alive!”
“Kill him, quickly!” answered the Serb.
If he could ignore orders, so could she. The tough woman grabbed hold of the leg and started pulling; it was hard to move the dead weight, and she was sweating in the July humidity by the time she exited the tunnel.
Zivcovic rolled the man over, to reveal a boyish face. “I know him, it is Warren’s nephew,” he said flatly, and pulled out his knife. It was over a foot long, and razor sharp.
“Let’s bring him back; Doc can take a look at him. His leg has been cauterized, he might make it.”
Zivcovic thought about it for a full minute, blade laying against the teen’s throat, watching his carotid artery jump under the knife. The teen was pale, probably in shock, and his pulse seemed erratic. “He is going to die anyway,” said the Serb, and then rolled the boy sideways. The knife slashed deeply, and blood ran black in the pre-dawn light.
She knew he was right; carrying a wounded person cross country with Invy patrols out would get them both killed, and the boy was dying anyway. There was no way to treat him in the field, and if they had brought him to an Invy town, to a clinic, the plasma burn would be a dead giveaway. Still, she remembered a world, not so long ago, where he would be in a hospital and living. Hell, in that other world, his worst injury would have come from playing football.
“You stupid, brave kid,” she said harshly, and squeezed her own eyes tight, fighting back tears.
Zivcovic stood up and said, “Come, help me hide the body. Then we must go back to the Team.”
_________________________
“SCOUTS COMING IN!” called Boyd, who was on watch at the north side of the barn. The door rolled open, and the two snipers almost jumped from their horses. They had ridden hard cross country, and the animals’ sides were heaving.
Zivcovic snapped a quick salute at Colonel Singh, but made his report to Master Sergeant Agostine. “Warren’s nephew and someone else attacked an Invy patrol about two hours ago on I-81. They’re both dead, but they probably got an ID off facial recognition after they were hit by dazzlers.”
“Shit!” exclaimed the veteran NCO, and the team sprang to life around him. “Boyd, Jones, you’re with me and the Colonel. Doc, you’re going to switch off with me when we get Warren, you go with the Colonel and I’ll take him. Snipers on overwatch, you all know the rally point and the exfil plan, but we have to move, NOW!”
“What about the sister?”
“She comes along or not. We don’t care about her.”
Their biggest issue was time. How long would it take the Invy to ID the attackers? He looked to his own gear and weapons as the sniper team galloped off, to get to the rally point and s
et up.
Chapter 9
They didn’t bother with the chameleon suits. The sun was just rising and the five scouts ran across the fields. The suits were made for stealth and hiding, and were incredibly hot. Speed was of the essence, and they moved from cover to cover, trying to avoid the Invy drones that were sure to be out now.
Reaching the rear door, Hamilton stepped back, removed a sledge hammer from his pack, and swung hard. The lock shattered, and Jones went past him, followed by Boyd. They moved into the kitchen, weapons up, and called, “CLEAR!”
“GENERAL WARREN!” yelled Agostine. “WARREN!” he yelled again, and the man appeared at the head of the stairs, looking sleepy and half awake.
“What the hell?” he muttered, still trying to take in the sight of armed men at the bottom of the stairs. His sister appeared behind him, a pistol clutched in her hand. Jones raised his rifle, but Agostine pushed it downward.
“Please come down,” he said to them. “We have some news you need to listen to.”
“OK,” said Warren, and the two came quietly downstairs. At the bottom he stopped, but Victoria started to go back upstairs.
“Ma’am,” said Colonel Singh in her soft voice, “please come into the living room.”
“I have to go wake Jeremy up. He deserves to hear whatever you have to say.” Then she caught the look that passed between Singh and Agostine, and her face went pale.
“J, Boyd, go pull security. Get signal with Ziv and let us know if anything is approaching.”
The two men went out the front door this time, pulling out their chameleon suits and disappearing before they even got into the hallway. The rest moved into the living room, but remained standing.
Singh spoke first, directly to Victoria. “Mrs. Stalh, early this morning your son, along with someone else, attacked an Invy patrol. It was observed by our sniper team, and both were killed in the action.”
Doc had been expecting her to faint, but she didn’t, though her knees buckled. Then she turned, and slapped her brother across the face, a ringing smack that reeled him backwards. Faster than any of them could move, she pulled her pistol from the waistband of her sweats and pointed it at his face.
“GET OUT!” she screamed, her voice shrill.
“Victoria…” he started to protest. She ignored the guns that were pointed at her, and moved closer, holding the .45 inches from his face, hammer cocked back.
“He’s dead because of you! All your stories, he looked up to you, and had to prove himself. MY SON! GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE!” she screeched again, pushed the barrel into his face.
Warren cringed backwards, and slowly moved towards the hall. Agostine and Hamilton moved out in front of him, and Singh stepped towards her.
“Mrs. Stahl, the Invy will destroy this place at any moment. Come with us,” she said as calmly as she could, feeling the woman’s pain.
The pistol swung to point at her, and Victoria hissed, “Get the hell out of my house!”
Singh turned and walked slowly out the door, following the two NCOs. Outside on the porch, the men held David Warren as he struggled to go back into the house.
“Let. Me. GO!” he said angrily, grief tearing at his voice.
Singh stood in front of him, and said, “General, we need to leave. A thunderbolt may strike this place at any minute, and there will be increased Invy patrols.”
“My sister needs me!” he raged, and struggled even more. “VAL!” he yelled.
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Inside, she heard him yelling; saw nothing but the last photograph she had of her son, when he was four, just before the invasion. He was dressed in a baseball uniform that said “SLUGGER” on it, with a broad smile on his face, and the grass was green around him,. Her husband, dead eleven years now, had him on his shoulders, and their happy faces looked out at the camera.
She took the picture down off the mantle, sat on the couch, and placed it in her lap. Ignoring the continued shouts from outside, she whispered one more time to her family.
------------------------------------------
The shot was muffled, even though the windows were open to let in the breeze, making everyone freeze when it rang out.
“VAL!” screamed Warren, and broke one arm free from Boyd, though Jones held him in an iron grip.
“Doc, go check it out. Jonesy, quiet him down!” ordered Agostine. The medic went back into the house, as Jones wrapped an invisible arm around Warren’s neck and slowly squeezed. The man struggled for a bit, then fell silent. Boyd left them there, stepped out from under the overhanging porch, and activated his suit, watching down the road.
Hamilton came back out, wiping bloody hands on a towel. “She didn’t do it right, I had to put her down.” The medic didn’t say anything more, but the image of the woman, half her face blown away and an eyeball popped out, rolling in agony on the floor, would never leave him. None of the dead ever did.
“Nick,” said the disembodied voice of Sergeant Boyd out in the yard, “according to the schedule, the next orbital should be in range in less than five minutes. If there’s not a strike then, we have a half an hour.”
“OK, folks, let’s head to the RP. J, you carry the General until he’s able to walk.”
The black man appeared, folding his cham suit and stuffing it onto the carrier at his side, and slung the groggy, smaller man over his shoulder. “Just cause I’m so big, I always get stuck doing the heavy shit!” he muttered, but set off in a loping run, around the back of the house and southwest. Boyd appeared next to him, and the two moved off.
“Should we burn it?” asked Singh.
“No, it won’t be here after today. Probably not till later, but still, it will be gone. Let’s go,” answered Agostine, and the three set off in the scout walk/jog that ate up the miles, following in Jones’ and Boyd’s footsteps.
They made it over the rise and changed course due west to climb the ridge that led to the rally point. Before they had gone more than half a mile, a light appeared high in the east, first a pinprick, then rushing towards them with increasing speed.
“EVERYONE DOWN!” yelled Boyd, who had seen it first. The entire team hit the ground, lying flat and clutching the earth, clapping hands over their ears and opening their mouths. Warren, having regained consciousness, lay there unaware of - or simply not caring about - what was happening.
The tungsten rod, about five feet long and six inches wide, hit slightly to the east of the house at over seven thousand miles per hour. The force of the impact vaporized the ground where it hit with the equivalent of five tons of high explosive, digging far into the ground and vaporizing the bedrock.
There didn’t seem to be any sound, just the feeling of your lungs wanting to be ripped out of your chest from the blast. The ground heaved under them, throwing everyone up a few inches, and the shockwave rolled over them a split second later, hammering them back into the ground. The air rushed past, away from them at first, then rushing back, followed by pieces of earth, stone and wood pelting down around them.
Boyd yelled as a large piece of cinderblock landed on the back of his knee, smashing it. The rest were lucky, only receiving small bruises. After a minute, Warren stood, and saw a small mushroom cloud rising where his home had been.
“Mother of God,” he said, and sat back down. His ears were ringing from the explosion.
Hamilton, looking to Boyd’s knee, said, with clear disdain, “I guess you’re all in now, General Coward.”
Chapter 10
They made it to the rally point on top of the ridge, picked up Zivcovic and Reynolds, and set up perimeter security while Doc assessed Boyd’s leg and they planned their next move. Warren sat by himself in the center of the perimeter, while Singh and Agostine talked. Three miles away, another cloud carried off the remains of Tommy’s parents.
“I hope he’s worth it. We were seriously exposed on this op,” said Agostine, using the time to clean his weapons. Singh didn’t answer
for a minute, looking at Warren. He seemed a pathetic wreck, and started crying even as she met his eyes.
Turning back to Agostine, she said, “Nick, the time is coming. The kids outside the towns are growing up uneducated, and the ones in the towns are getting brainwashed. All of us veterans are getting older. Pretty soon we’re not going to be able to fight this fight and hope to win.”
“Can we win?” he asked, sharpening his knife. Every few seconds he looked around to check the team’s dispositions.
“Maybe. It all depends on disposition of forces, timing, and planning. What we need him for, more than anything else, is to sharp shoot the plan. There’s nobody else left with his training and experience.”
“Well, he’s going to shit himself when he meets Archangel.”
“You’re not supposed use code word IDs in the field,” she reprimanded him.
“When the hell ARE we supposed to use them, Kali?” he answered with a grin.
Her dusky face took on a frown. “I’m a Sikh, we’re monotheistic. I can’t believe they gave me that.”
“I dunno, I think it fits! Destruction and all…” The officer threw a rock at him, and he laughed.
“Careful,” she said, while still smiling, “I could have you shot.”
Agostine grinned and said, “I’ve been shot before, and I’ve seen you shoot, I’m not wor-.”
An excited shout interrupted them, Jonesy calling, “WOLVERINES! No Dragons!”
“Shit!” cursed the NCO. “Investigating the thunderbolt effects. Must have picked up our scent. What do you want to do, Colonel?”
“I will take the horses and General Warren to Raven Rock. I assume your team can handle themselves?”
He knew that she wasn’t leaving because of cowardice. Rachel Singh had been among the first scouts, and some of her infiltrations were legendary. It was just that she was an outsider in a unit that was extremely close and worked well together.
“Got it. Doc, help Warren onto his horse. Get the long guns out, we’re going to need them. Boyd stand fast, Jones on me, we’re going to swing left and hit them from the side. This is going to draw a shitstorm down on us. Doc, Ziv and Reynol… Jesus effing Christ, not again!”
