He tapped the datapad screen with a finger, making hard eye contact with the bottle-thrower. "Do you want payback for this? Well, do you?"
A slow, grudging nod.
"You'll get your payback. Tomorrow we take the war up a notch. Sergeants, please join me in the TOC. We've got an ambush to plan."
As the leadership team headed to the meeting, Randal caught sight of Nabil. He looked pale and wobbly, like he'd been sucker-punched. It was understandable; every non-Purist in Abkhenazia lived in fear of the midnight knock that might be Tsepashin and his Fist of the Mogdukh.
CHAPTER 9
Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.
—Henry Louis Mencken
The 'eathen in 'is blindness must end where 'e began.
But the backbone of the Army is the non-commissioned man!
—Rudyard Kipling
It was that loneliest time of night, the brief period before dawn when everything is still and frozen. The morning fog glowed in the merciless lights of Security Sub-station Number Eleven. Formerly Trinity Classical, a secondary school, it had been impressed into military service. The school office now functioned as a headquarters, the classrooms drafted into barracks duty. A full company of Scourge secret police was housed there. Dozens of such arrangements were scattered around Providence; the city was divided into precincts, each captained by a sub-station.
They had converted the football pitch to a buzkashi field, from what Randal's scouts reported. He noted the twin poles placed at opposite sides of a circle drawn in lime. Buzkashi, the Abkhenazi national sport, literally meant "goat-grabbing" and was known for its brutality. Normally played on horseback with lead-tipped whips, the object was simply to move a headless, sand-filled goat carcass from one pole to the other. Central Asian tribes had played it for centuries. In Providence they had adapted to the lack of horses, playing on foot but keeping the whips.
Every morning the Scourge company assembled on the buzkashi field for physical training. Randal intended that morning to be a memorable one for them. He and his team squatted in the alleyway across the street from the school. Over the headset he'd appropriated from a militiaman he said, "Pyatt, this is Knox. Are your people in place?"
"Gimme two mikes."
"Roger, out."
Outstanding - the sniper teams were nearly ready. He'd kept the plan simple for the benefit of the recently civilian. There would be time for more complex missions later, but for their first platoon-level operation he wanted as few potential foul-ups as possible.
The Irregulars were set up for an L-shaped ambush — two lines of troops meeting at a right angle, anchored at the joint by the unit's light machine gun. Snipers formed the base of the L, hidden in an abandoned cannery across from the football pitch. Pyatt and Pieter were in charge of that section.
The back of the L was formed by the autoriflemen hiding with Randal in the alley. None of Randal's people were in powered armor. He wanted to save that surprise for a special occasion. The only available cover was a line of vehicles along the street. These had been impounded with the onset of martial law, the groundcars chock-blocked, the nozzles of the skimmers booted or simply cemented shut.
With a painful opening screech, speakers blared the Abkhenazi national anthem. It was a militarized adaptation of the Russian-Kazakh composer Katseppova's piece, Maya Rodina. Randal doubted Katseppova would appreciate the revisions, or the people using her work.
Men poured from the barracks and dashed madly for formation. In spite of the frigid air they went bare-chested, wearing only workout shorts. They stacked their rifles to the rear of the formation and scurried into their assigned places.
The last man to find his spot was brought to the front. A senior sergeant beat the man with a baton until he crumpled at his feet. Dragging the fallen soldier to the side to regain his senses, the senior sergeant led the men in callisthenic drills. As the men did these he circled like a predator through the ranks, striking anyone who seemed lax in his performance.
You get it first, Randal thought. He'd established code words with the machine gunner, the man who would initiate the attack — Mayhem if it was a go, Declension in the event of an abort. Before giving the go-code, he glanced at Ariane, who crouched nearby. She was along as medic for the op. The trim submachine gun slung over one shoulder still seemed awkward in her grip. He gave her a nudge. "Just stay close to me."
With a quick smile he looked back to the pitch, motioning for the autoriflemen to take position. As one, they slunk into place behind the impounded cars, keeping out of sight. Just then the senior sergeant paused in mid-swagger. Whether it was a glint from a riflescope or a flicker of movement Randal would never know, but suddenly the enemy noncom started barking out orders.
The Abkhenazi, conditioned to instant obedience, rose to their feet. Seeing his advantage about to disappear, Randal called "Mayhem, mayhem!" over the com.
The loud retort of the machine gun broke the pre-dawn silence, followed by the snipers firing in quick succession from the old cannery. Autoriflemen popped up from behind groundcars and skimmers, spraying the massed troops with 5 mm rounds.
First to fall was the senior sergeant — Pieter's snipers had remembered to target the chain of command.
Chaos erupted as the enemy soldiers scrambled over each other to seize a weapon from the stacks. Many gave up and dashed toward the school building, but there was no safety to be found.
Strangely, one soldier ran not toward the school, but in the direction of Randal's riflemen. His hands were in the air and he was shouting frantically. Whatever his words, they were lost in the tumult. "No one shoot him, he's surrendering!" Randal called over the headset.
Then he forgot the man as a handful of Abkhenazi returned fire, using a pile of their dead compatriots for cover.
He killed one with a carefully aimed shot, but took no pleasure in it. There was nothing honorable or glorious in guerrilla warfare, no matter how effective it might be. He felt pity for the young Abkhenazi dying helplessly in their gym shorts.
Beside him Ariane fired burst after burst at the enemy. The one glance he'd caught of her made him worried; she looked sick with guilt. He wished he could tell her a comforting lie, maybe that her weapon was useless at such a range, but there was no time.
The volume of fire slackened and then died as all movement on the football pitch ceased. Now they needed to evac the area before enemy reinforcements arrived. "Everyone start pulling back. I want you off-site in three minutes."
"Randal, this is Pieter. We've got a man down — head wound."
"I'll send the medic." He turned to Ariane. "I need you to move with a purpose over to the cannery. One of the snipers took a head shot."
The girl winced. Randal didn't envy her having to work under such conditions. "Tell Pieter I'll be right there," she said resignedly. He watched her run off, a slim girl with an oversized medical kit and a gun. It was a beautiful sight.
Belatedly he remembered the surrendering Abkhenazi. Had he survived? "Anyone on this ComNet — any word on that Abbie who ran toward us?"
An anxious voice came back to him. "Captain Knox, we're to the north of you. Sergeant al-Hise, he... I think he's going to kill the prisoner."
Randal cursed. Nabil didn't have a militia com; there was no way to call him off.
He sprinted northward and found the Abkhenazi soldier kneeling with hands behind his head. The ternate stars printed on his gym shorts marked him as a light colonel, the cat-of-nine-tails below it placed him with the Scourge of the Prophet.
Looming over him was Nabil al-Hise, the muzzle of his rifle propping up the man's chin. Off to the side stood a skinny militiaman Randal remembered the others calling Rickets. "What's going on here? We're expecting enemy counterforce troops in two minutes. Why are you two lollygagging?" Randal's blood was still up from the fight.
"Captain Knox, he's going to kill him!"
"Sergeant al-Hise, stand down. Lower the weapon now."
Nabil didn't look up. "He's a swine and he deserves to die like one." The weapon shook in his hands, the muzzle tracking wildly around the prisoner's face.
There was no time for negotiations. Randal pointed his flechette rifle at Nabil. "One more chance."
The enemy officer began speaking in slow, measured tones. His English was flawless. "I'm with the New Genevan Intelligence Service. I'm deep cover, please believe me. I wanted to make contact with you."
This startled Nabil enough to lower his weapon. "He's lying. But if you would kill me rather than this swine, then very well. I will remember!" With a contemptuous look he trotted off to join the escaping Irregulars.
Keeping a safe distance from the Abkhenazi, Randal knelt down to eye-level with him. "You're probably lying. Either way, I don't shoot prisoners so this is your lucky day." He paused, debating internally before adding, "If you're on the level, then be at the hovertram stop at Cedar and Leominster at 1700 this evening. If you double-cross us, believe me that my snipers are very, very good. You'll never leave that spot alive." He stood, freeing his sidearm from its shoulder rig. "Now close your eyes, I have to give you an alibi."
With a resigned sigh, the Abkhenazi officer leaned forward, covering his eyes. "Just make it quick."
Flipping his pistol to hold it by the barrel, Randal struck him as carefully as possible on the back of the head.
"Oi! That really hurts."
"Sorry! Never really done this before." The second hit sprawled the man out. To the enemy troops who found him it would appear he was captured and left for dead.
After checking the Abkhenazi's pulse, Randal sprinted to join his team. The rumble of oncoming armored vehicles grew loud as he dropped into the welcoming safety of the Catacombs.
***
At 1700 a Korean woman enshrouded in the shapeless burqa distributed by the Khlisti authorities sat by the hovertram stop at Cedar and Leominster. Behind her rose the pink stone buildings of Abraham Kuyper University, the pre-war research hub of New Geneva. She pretended to read a copy of Istina, or "Heavenly Truth" from a datapad. Her eyes flitted over the top of the screen, scanning the thin crowd surreptitiously.
An almost deserted hovertram pulled into the kiosk, expelling a rush of air as it settled down on its rubber skirting. The door accordioned open, a lone passenger in Abkhenazi fatigues descending the steps. Ternate stars were sewn onto the collar of the blouse. An oversized flechette pistol rode low on his hip.
Jeni set aside the datapad, favoring him with a wave that would be a tip-off if he was the man she was to meet, and merely interpreted as flirtatious if not. He was a handsome one, if not tall enough for her usual tastes.
He took a seat beside her. Pulling up his sleeve, he eyed a small electronic device strapped to his forearm. "Other than the microtransmitter on your person, there seem to be no other listening devices in the area. We can speak with relative freedom," he told her softly, slipping an arm around her shoulders. Officers were allowed liberties with the civilian population; she knew the physical closeness would keep any other Abkhenazi from disturbing them.
Jeni made no apologies for the transmitter. It was the only way to alert the security team hiding in the sewer below if trouble arose. "I'm with military intel, so don't assume I'm a bit of fluff. How do we know you are who you say you are?"
The man shrugged. "Any details I give you to authenticate myself would also be known to a false flag agent. You'll know I'm real when the things I tell you come true."
Jeni nodded, not entirely satisfied. "All right. But my transmitter has a live trideo feed. My people know what you look like. You double-cross us and every sniper on the payroll will be looking for you." She flashed the oversize button of her purse at him, ostensibly the micro-cam. It was a total bluff — the transmitter was actually a mic taped to her throat, but he seemed to buy it.
"Very well. What information would you like first?"
That stymied her momentarily. It was only supposed to be an introductory meeting; the team hadn't expected him to be so forthcoming. Moved by a generous impulse, she asked on Ariane's behalf, "The Abbies are stealing children. Where are they taking them?"
"There's a boarding school, near the university. They've turned it into an academy for Janissaries." His eyes never left hers as he answered. He was either telling the truth or a masterful liar.
She had no idea what a Janissary was, but trusted that Randal would. "Alright. We'll communicate through dead drops, of course. Here's a set of locations and times."
He nodded assent, pocketing the list. "You will call me Onegin in our correspondence, and I shall refer to you as Tatyana. If by chance our messages are intercepted, I can easily explain you away as one of my moles in the Resistance."
Deftly lifting her veil, he stole a quick kiss from her lips. "Just for appearances," he said with a twisted smile. After a quick bow he was off, rounding a corner and out of sight.
***
Ariane sat wrapped in a coarse synthwool blanket in the Irregulars' makeshift infirmary. This consisted of three folding cots, a poorly stocked medical cabinet, a pile of linens, the Doc-in-a-Box and a chiropractic-turned-operating table Pieter had scrounged up.
Her patient slept on the cot to her right, wrapped in the warm embrace of a sedative. The only casualty of the morning's ambush, he'd caught an improvident ricochet. The round grazed his skull, burying itself in the meat of his left shoulder. She'd kept him alive, but the joint would never be the same. She simply had neither the equipment, nor the skills she needed, and that fact plagued her constantly.
With a soft wrap of knuckles against the stone of the infirmary entrance, Nabil walked in. "Good evening, Private Mireault," he said politely, taking a seat on the empty cot.
"Nabil," she answered, feeling wary.
"I heard of the death of your mother; I came to express my sympathies. I lost my parents to those butchers as well." His voice held no trace of emotion, his eyes seeming to search her face for something.
"Merci. I'm sorry about your parents."
His shoulders elevated millimetrically. "They are being avenged. Perhaps now you see that forgiveness isn't the panacea you thought it was, no?"
Ariane smiled a glum little smile. She knew she should be mad at his cynical little thrust, but instead she felt a sort of pity for him. "I'm angry at what they've done, Nabil. But hating them won't bring her back. Hating them only hardens me; it won't hurt them at all."
"Perhaps you didn't feel as strongly for your mother as I did for mine," he said, pursing his lips sourly. "If you did it wouldn't be so easy for you to sympathize with her killers."
That got her attention. "Easy? They have my little boy. The easiest thing in the world would be to give in like you have." She came halfway out of her seat. "There's something dark in you Nabil. And it won't be happy until I'm just as hateful as you. Misery really does love company, I guess."
She paused for breath, standing and starting to pace the floor. Nabil watched in silence, dark eyes narrowed to slits. Turning back to him, she stooped to meet his eyes. "There's another reason you keep coming to me like this — some small part of you knows I'm telling the truth. The part that knows the Abkhenazi are no bigger sinners than you once were in the eyes of God."
Quicker than she could imagine possible, his hand was pressed flat to her chest and shoving her backward. "Don't bring our God into this, stupid girl!" he snarled, springing to his feet and pushing past her.
Ariane trudged back to her cot and slumped into bed. Nabil's head games were the finishing touch on a wretched day. She sobbed away the day's misery into the thin pillow, grateful it was finally over.
***
Now that Pieter's crew was functioning well as a team, Randal decided it was time to press on with his plan to unite the militia cells into an organized resistance.
He knew it wouldn't be easy. STA — Safety Through Autonomy — was one of the key tenets dr
iven home to the militiamen during their quarterly training days. It was a great theory, but the reality on the ground was something else. The Army's retreat from Providence had left the militia cells so demoralized that few were still in the fight. Other than occasional reports of distant autofire from his snipers, and spoor and trash in the Catacombs, the Irregulars found little evidence of their fellow cells.
Randal believed that someone with vision could bring them back. With the right instruction the cells would be much deadlier united than separated. At times he worried it was hubris driving him on, but his vision for a partisan army wouldn't let him alone.
Even if he could find them, he had other worries. Given the paranoia brought on by constant hiding, meeting the cells without getting shot by them might be problematic. Even once contact was made, Randal doubted that most cell leaders would cede command as readily as Pieter.
Taking his concerns to Jeni had proven to be a good idea. For the previous two days she and Lebedev had sequestered themselves in the Belarusian's workshop. Fishing for hints about her plans only rewarded him with maddeningly enigmatic smiles. Jeni had scared poor Lebedev into silence as well — leaning on him for information had only made him more squirrelly than usual. Thus it was with great relief that he heard Jeni say, "Randy, check it out," as she and Lebedev joined him in the TOC. The Belarusian carried an improvised electronic device.
"You're finished?" he asked, careful to keep his voice level. Sounding excited would only make her coy.
"Uh-huh. Sergei and I cannibalized the DF gear from one of my drones. Then we tore the guts from one of the deadlined coms and used its housing. Next, Sergei hooked up this little monitor we found with some cable lines. He's so clever." She goosed Lebedev, nearly causing him to drop the device.
"Dee-Eff. So I can direction-find the militia coms with this?"
Knox's Irregulars Page 11
