Jeni nodded. "Uh-huh. But only when you know what frequency to scan for. That's where I come in. I'll use a drone to find signals, decrypt 'em to make sure they're friendly, and then tell the team with the hand-held set what freq to look for."
Parts of it began to make sense to Randal. "Like triangulation."
"Exactly like triangulation. My comp will tell me the direction the signal is coming from. Then the hand-held set will give its people a back-azimuth for the signal. We plot lines on the map from our locations in the direction of the source. Wherever my line meets theirs, we've got our target to within about ten meters. I'll call ahead to warn them you're coming, and then your ground team moves to contact." She elbowed Lebedev lightly. "'Simpler than a steamed turnip' as you Slavs are always saying, right Sergei?"
The man only managed a nervous smile.
Randal took the device from Lebedev, turning it over to examine it. "This little box might be worth a regiment to me. Thanks."
"Anything for my loyal subjects," Jeni said regally, leaving him with a wink.
The next day Randal assembled a contact team. He planned to lead it himself, hoping his notoriety would give the team's proposition some much-needed credibility.
He brought Pieter with him, since he was also a well-known personality around Providence. Rounding out the team was the rail-thin secondary school student the men called Rickets. He'd earned a good reputation working as a bird-dog for the snipers. Also, Rickets looked about as intimidating as a Pomeranian. There wasn't much chance of a militia sentry mistaking him for an Abkhenazi warrior and getting trigger-happy.
As soon as night fell they crept from the underground, activating the direction-finder. About a kilometer away another team was placing Jeni's drone atop an abandoned building to give it needed elevation. They'd been unable to salvage the flight controls.
Randal's team hid in an alley while they waited, keeping low behind a pile of uncollected garbage. After nearly an hour Jeni's voice came across the headset. "Hardly anyone's talking tonight. I finally have an active channel. Go to three-eleven point eight-seven."
Pieter punched in the freq. The small monitor cast a greenish glow on his features as he studied it. "It's processing..." he whispered.
They all ducked as a pair of gunships soared overhead, vectored thrust kicking up debris in the alley, pelting them. Fortunately they were in a visual dead zone; the gunship's searchlights never brushed them. Randal badly missed his LANCER suit — the flechette rifle he carried would do little to stop the gunships. He was still keeping the armor in reserve.
"Okay, it's showing numbers. Um...Two-seventy-one point four."
Randal relayed them to Jeni.
"Okay, Randy. Your prize awaits you at grid coordinate eight-seven-one-four, nine-nine-five-two — give or take."
"Roger, out."
Pieter pulled a datapad from his waist pack, calling up a topographic map of Providence. As a cell leader, up-to-date military maps were issued to him. He entered the grid code, then glanced up, frowning incredulously. "They're in my church, Randal. That coordinate is spot in the middle of Kirk of the Hills Presbyterian Church."
The trio dropped back into the sewers and started working their way downtown. Randal knew before long the Abkhenazi would grow wise and start monitoring the main arteries, but until then it was a lot safer traveling underground than above. The closest sewer access to the church was in the middle of a major thoroughfare, so the contact team backtracked to a quiet side street. After slipping out, they kept to the shadows, creeping to within sight of the old church.
Pieter cursed under his breath, echoing Randal's thoughts. They'd seen evidence that the Abkhenazi were torching all reminders of Providence's religious roots, but neither had wanted to believe that Kirk of the Hills had shared that fate. Massive walls remained like a brick skeleton, piles of rubble lying at the base of the gutted sanctuary. The wood beams and antique shingles of the roof were a memory.
What saddened him most was the loss of the gorgeous rose mosaic glass window that once sat over the main doors. It was a relic of Terra, depicting the resurrection of Christ in thousands of microscopically thin glass wafers that were layered in painstaking detail. He'd spent an entire afternoon one winter just watching the light of the revolving sun shift and nuance the colors of the glass.
Another thing the Abkhenazi would be called to account for.
"They must be in the basement level of the church. You really have to admire their cheek, setting up residence in the middle of downtown," Pieter said over Randal's shoulder.
Rickets nodded. "Bet it's the last place the bad guys would think to look."
Randal hailed Jeni, giving her the go-ahead to contact the cell in the church. After a few minutes she came back with, "They aren't happy, but they don't seem likely to shoot you. Good luck."
Letting the flechette rifle hang across his back by the sling, Randal kept his hands out wide, the others following. Slowly climbing the broad stone steps leading into the remains of the church narthex, he squinted into the darkness. A face emerged, blackened with soot. The militiaman pressed a gloved finger to his lips and directed them toward the basement with the muzzle of his autorifle. They passed three of his fellows along the way, all well camouflaged and situated. Whoever was leading them knew his business.
The basement had fared better than Randal expected, mostly just smoke-damaged. Down a long, darkened corridor they came to a set of wooden double doors. The guide ushered them in.
He could tell immediately upon entering that the war had been harder on this cell than Pieter's. Several wounded lay along the wall of what was once the church social hall. Out of what should have been an original strength of forty men, Randal counted less than twenty, including the ones topside.
A solidly-built older man in hunting clothes sat on the low platform at the opposite end of the social hall. The lighting was extremely dim, but Randal could make out the skinning knife he was sharpening. The man summoned them with a wave.
As he came closer, Randal realized they weren't hunting cammies at all, but rather old-style fatigues the NGDF hadn't issued in at least a decade. "Hello young sirs," the older man said, dropping from the platform. "I'm Sergeant-Major Wheeler, NGDF retired. I assume you have some very good reason for violating autonomy?" Up close he definitely looked like a sergeant-major, with a bullet-shaped head and the general air of menace the military issued a man upon achieving the rank of sergeant-major.
Knowing hesitation meant disaster, Randal answered as coolly as he was able. "I'm Randal Knox, and I'm putting together an army. You're just the sort of leader I've been looking for, Sergeant-Major."
The Sergeant-Major chuckled to himself, tucking away the blade and stepping right up to them. "Come again, son?" If he was impressed with Randal's parentage, he was hiding it well.
Randal stood his ground. "It's time to get the cells back into the war. The main body of the enemy is far to the south, and we're sitting smack in the middle of their supply lines. A partisan army in Providence would be—"
"—completely unthinkable!" The older man scratched the bristles of his hair. "Imagine the logistics of it. Feeding them, arming them, training them. . ."
"I have thought about it, Sergeant-Major." Randal pulled the datapad from his rucksack, called up a file, and tossed it to him. "I've laid out organizational charts for the force; I've worked up a roster of needed positions and written up everything else I could think of. And you're right. It'd be near-impossible to pull off. That's why I need you."
The grizzled NCO scanned the document and for awhile it was as if the rest of them weren't even there. Then he let out a short bark of a laugh and pulled Randal over to him. Tapping the screen with a thick, stubby finger, he nodded. "You're on to something, boy. There are a few things I would change, though."
For the next three hours Randal and the Sergeant-Major argued, debated and discussed. Together the two refined and improved the vision until the old man seemed rather taken wit
h it. "Now for the real test," the Sergeant-Major said, walking away to join his men. "Theory is one thing. Let's see if anyone will actually sign on to this crusade of yours."
He explained the situation to his men. After much discussion they put it to a vote and the cell enlisted with the Irregulars.
"Here's a com, son," the Sergeant-Major said, tossing a battered set to Randal. "We need to be able to get in touch when needed. But don't tie it up with chatter. If you lot can find us, I've no doubt the sodding Abbies can too."
"We'll get a medic up here for your wounded post-haste, Sergeant-Major, along with some rations."
"Much appreciated. As discussed, we'll sit tight for now. Don't keep me waiting long though, I'm anxious to get these men back in the fight."
Randal was jubilant as the trio sneaked back to the Irregulars' base. The Sergeant-Major was exactly what he needed. As the partisan force grew it would need good men to lead it, and an old warhorse like Wheeler would be perfect for the job.
***
Over the next three weeks Randal repeated the process nearly every night, bringing Pieter and Rickets with him. Many nights Jeni was unable to raise a channel that was active for more than a handful of transmissions — too short a time for their improvised DF system to zero in on a location. Other times the cell would refuse to come out of hiding. But perhaps a third of the time they were able to meet with a cell leader. All but two of these were convinced to join the Irregulars.
The nightly harassment by Irregular sniper teams had stirred up the Abkhenazi. During the weeks of the outreach to the cells, Randal saw an ever-increasing number of patrols — mechanized, foot and air. He knew they were pushing it to keep going topside every night, but success spurred him forward.
On what he had decided would be the final night of their initial push, Jeni picked up a good, solid signal. It was tantalizingly close. Despite an uneasy feeling up the back of his neck, Randal led the contact team in the signal's direction. They moved swiftly through a dormant business district, keeping to the streets. More than once they'd missed contacts by taking the slower underground route.
"My map plots them in an office complex," Pieter said, stowing the datapad. "It's probably empty at this point."
The whole district is abandoned, thought Randal. With martial law in place, commerce was dead. Looted and abandoned business towers loomed over them, the wind howling through vacant streets like the ghosts of vanished capitalists.
Sound carried in the near-silent city. Even far off troop carriers and gunships sounded near, giving Randal the uncomfortable feeling of being surrounded. Making matters worse, his snipers reported motion sensors and cameras in places the Abkhenazi thought guerrilla activity likely. The alley they were traversing was just such a spot, Randal realized.
He called softly up to Rickets. "Keep a sharp eye out for cameras, okay?"
The boy looked back, giving a thumbs-up.
Just then his shin broke a micro-thin tripwire. Randal noticed it gleam as it snapped. The tripwire looked as if it followed a crevice between the bricks, traveling around the corner. That thought raced through his mind the instant before a light like a small sun blinded them. The keening wail of an alarm came with it. Randal's heart stopped and he felt his gorge rise in his throat. It took a second to realize it wasn't an explosion, but a warning device.
Randal seized Rickets by his collar, yanking him back roughly. Turning, he stiff-armed Pieter's chest. The man was frozen in place, stunned by the unexpected light.
"Ground flare! Move!"
Every Abkhenazi for a kilometer would be on them in a blink. Randal got the other two moving, the team sprinting from the damning flare. Hopping the fence to the parking lot of a three-story office building, they dashed across the open space.
A wheeled, low-slung scout car squealed around the corner. It sat stationary a spare second before barreling through the fence, bursting the chain holding it closed. At first sight of the ground car the three dove behind the building. A casemate turret swiveled atop the car, its medium machine gun belting loose a stream of bullets and pocking the wall.
Coughing on concrete dust, Randal yelled, "Run for the back fence!" He rolled to fire from the prone around the side of the building. Only his flechette rifle had any chance against the vehicle. He targeted the tires, squeezing off a quick pair of bursts. The left side wheels popped loudly enough to be heard over the machine gun. The vehicle lurched to the side.
But it didn't stop.
Randal ground his teeth in frustration. It had run-flats—self-sealing tires. Seeing the turret sighting on him, he winced, anticipating the machine gun slugs about to fly in his direction.
Instead they struck about ten centimeters overhead. Sharp pieces of concrete and plaster bit into his neck and scalp. The turret couldn't depress far enough to hit him at such close range. He took advantage of that, spider-webbing the driver's window with flechettes.
The driver was quick-witted, shifting fire to the two runners. Clearing the side of the building, he had a clean shot. Pieter and Rickets were just scaling the fence when the rounds struck. Most went wide, one tearing the top bar of the fence in half, dumping Pieter into the ditch on the opposite side.
Rickets wasn't as fortunate. Two bullets had found him, his thin frame barely slowing them. The boy hung bonelessly, his ragged jacket caught on a fence post.
Randal scrambled to his feet, rushing the car and firing on the move. He filled the driver's window with holes, still shooting even after he was sure nothing survived inside. Then he rushed to his fallen man and eased him to the ground, kneeling to examine the damage. Ripping open the boy's shirt, Randal fought down the urge to be sick - the exit wounds looked like angry red mouths erupting from his chest. Air bubbled and hissed from one of the holes, the collapsed lung struggling to function.
Randal pressed his hands over the wound, beginning emergency aid. He soon saw it was futile. Already the rise and fall of his chest was slowing, the eyes losing their light. "Stay with me Rickets, look at me. . ." Taking the boy's hand, he squeezed it tightly and prayed quietly over him. Rickets was gone before the amen.
He took a grenade from the boy's webbing, disengaged the secondary safety and pulled the pin. Rolling Rickets over, he wedged the grenade under him. When the Abbies collected his body, Rickets would have the last word.
Slinging the boy's autorifle, Randal stepped over the broken fence to join Pieter. He hated leaving Ricket's behind, hated the awful pragmatism with which he had to act, but he forced aside his feelings. He needed to be hard to see his people through.
"I hear gunships," Pieter said, setting off at a run. The two of them followed the ditch to where it flowed into a culvert. Wading into it, they entered the embracing darkness of the Catacombs.
***
The following days seemed to blur, one into another. With the challenges of integrating new cells into the Irregulars, Randal's life narrowed down to a never-ending series of meetings and planning sessions. From having forty-six souls in one spot to care for, he now had nearly three hundred in seven locations. One cell had no central location at all. Instead, the troops lived dispersed in the attics of militia sympathizers around the city. This dispersion would have been a logistical headache even without the constant threat of Abkhenazi patrols. During those brief times he was permitted to sleep, images of Rickets' final moments played a repeating loop in his head.
Their latest crisis was a supply shortage. An army runs on its stomach, and a few crates of pilfered rations and some preserved fruits wouldn’t keep it going for long. Of the senior staff, only Van Loon and Jeni were in the Catacombs, so Randal sent runners to bring them to the storage chamber. Van Loon came immediately, a flechette rifle slung across his back. Jeni ambled in at her own pace.
Catching Randal's worried expression, Van Loon eyed their dwindling stock of provisions. "My wife’s been telling me to go on a diet."
"You’re in luck then. I thought recruiting the cells would be
the hard part. That's easy compared to equipping and feeding them."
"Devil's in the details, Randy," Jeni chimed in brightly. "We're overextended. We don't have anything like the support network we need to keep this army in the field. We need supplies, safe houses, intelligence..."
He knew she was right. It was the part of the job he hated most. Big ideas came easily to him; niggling details were another matter. "Believe me, I know. You have some ideas?"
The girl splayed out her fingers, examining the nails critically. "We have a sympathetic population just waiting to be asked. They're in this as much as we are, after all. I could start by getting the addresses of likely candidates from the militia guys. I do have a certain flair for these things."
"And you’re welcome to it. Keep me posted," Randall said, turning to Van Loon. "Jack, I want you to spend a few days with the Brighton District cell. They're shot up so badly it'll take a miracle just to reestablish unit cohesion. I'm hoping you can work one. Take along one of the new noncoms; he can learn by watching you." He sat down on an ammo box. "In addition to the Brighton cell, pick a second one. You, Nabil and Pyatt are each going to take a newbie sergeant. We'll divvy up the cells, two for each of you. You'll be responsible for getting them organized. Agreed?"
Van Loon nodded. "I was thinking along those lines. But that's only the first step. We can drill them on combat basics, but they'll still need someone to train them further. We need to bring Sergeant-Major Wheeler into this."
"Definitely. When you and the others are working with the new cells, keep an eye on who naturally stands out. We'll attach them temporarily to the Sergeant-Major. He's about going to be our one-man NCO academy."
“Sounds good,” Van Loon said. ”Now what should we do about the cell over in the abandoned metro station? They're split right down the middle between those two yobs that both want to be boss."
"Kick one of them upstairs."
"How's that, Jeni?"
"Promote one of them to some meaningless HQ position where he can't do any damage. Assistant Deputy Lieutenant Signals Officer or something. That'll take him out of the equation."
Knox's Irregulars Page 12
