Grayman Book One: Acts of War

by Michael Rizzo

13

  October 23rd.

  Mike Ram:

  “The Global War on Terror: otherwise known to popular history as twenty years of bloody tragedies and politically devastating fiascos: New York, Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Spain, Columbia, Jerusalem, Kashmir, Chechnya... I doubt anybody here really wants me to go on… And despite whatever ‘tactical’ or political victories you’ve tried to claim from your efforts, the Media has consistently preferred to rub your noses in your shortfalls, your errors, your vulnerabilities, your unintentional atrocities…”

  You are careful not to specifically look any one delegation directly in the eye—you don’t want any of them to take it personally, or anyone watching to assume that directing blame is your intention. You are just as careful with your tone, your choice of words. You have come with no script this time, no prepared speech—Henderson’s idea, after how well he felt you were received last time for “breaking the rules and speaking your mind.” You glance up at him in the gallery—still smiling, he gives you a nod of conspiratorial approval. Miller and Collins are careful to keep stone-faced.

  “This is the Ratings War,” you explain with gentle, parental intensity. “It’s like what they say about an auto race: more people watch hoping to see someone crash than care who wins. And someone always crashes.

  “Trillions of dollars per year you collectively spend trying to predict and protect against what a handful of desperate individuals can think up and pull off with minimal resources. Trillions spent bombing already-impoverished urban areas and third-world wastelands, and sweeping in with thousands and thousands of troops, trying to occupy territory you can’t politically or economically afford to hold, and they’ve got all the time in the world to take it right back again.

  “Any victories you manage are fleeting. You kill or capture one high-profile terrorist warlord, and then can’t contain the dozens that pop up eager to replace him. You topple one terror-supporting regime, only to watch the country fall into hopeless chaos and maybe be taken back by those same terrorists as soon as you try to withdraw. You drive one enemy into the ground, only to inspire ten or a hundred or a thousand more. For every hundred terrorist plots you manage to stop, it’s the one you miss that devastates you.”

  You can see Richards squirming in the wings in his fresh, custom tailored uniform. Trying not to. Trying not to sweat. Wishing you’d just shut up, even though he knows they’re actually buying you.

  “Twenty years of radical restrictions on almost every aspect of our society and commerce in the name of increased security… and still there is no real defense. Even with all the hundreds of billions thrown into screening technology, global surveillance and intimidating security, they always find a new way—or often, a humiliatingly old way—to hurt us. And the Media will always be there when that happens. And through the Media, the world will watch you as you so desperately try to do the same things over and over again to try to prevent what you cannot completely anticipate.”

  You stop and breathe and soften as they stew. And then you give them:

  “How do you feel?”

  You give them a few seconds to try to make sense of that, let them try to get their balance back. Then repeat:

  “How do you feel? Right now?” And you face the row-upon-row of stone-faced delegations laid out almost stadium-style in the massive assembly hall and the galleries above them and the cameras placed around the chamber and you spread your armored arms and embrace them all.

  “I have just done exactly what the terrorist does: I have told your people that you can’t protect them from the monsters of their nightmares. That you are helpless. That all of your efforts are worse than useless.”

  You lower your arms, get smaller behind the podium, softer again.

  “But it’s not just the terrorist that does that. Every single one of your very vocal critics does the same thing: They tell you what you’re doing wrong. That you’re only making it worse. They just never tell you what the ‘right’ thing to do would be. At least not anything that would actually work. The would-be peacemakers would have you placate implacable fanatics. The retribution-mongers would have you make war on entire nations and populations, when you know most terrorism is fringe extremism.”

  You pause, let them digest. Then start to sell:

  “We have come here today to offer you an alternative. The only truly effective way to really stop the terrorist is through surgical means: to identify and neutralize each individual threat as soon as it begins to materialize. You know this. You just can’t do it effectively. So you go to war with the tools you have, to paraphrase one of Secretary Miller’s predecessors...”

  There is an uncomfortable chuckle from the gallery at your reference. You try to let it pass unnoticed. Warming now:

  “I come here to offer you new tools. And I know how unusual it is for a line officer to address the General Assembly like this—believe me, it wasn’t my idea…” More chuckling, this time even among the otherwise dour delegations. “But those wiser than me felt it was important for all of you to meet a flesh-and-blood representative of the human beings who will be underneath all of this armor and technology, so that you may hopefully be impressed that I believe—and I do believe—that we cannot afford to do what we have been doing. We cannot afford what is impersonally called ‘collateral damage,’ no matter the lengths our enemies go to ensure that we cannot avoid it if we wish to fight back.”

  You give them a few breaths to absorb, and then Datascan begins to roll the armor and ICW demos across the big theater screens flanking the UN emblem behind you. Then you wade into the same pitch you’ve been delivering to boots and base commanders for the last six months:

  “That means a new kind of intelligence and a new kind of soldier. Tanks and planes and smart bombs and satellites and warships are all fine tools, but they are not effective where we need them to be. It’s been decades since our enemies have gathered in numbers and in locations that would make those weapons effective. This is because they learned that lesson far more quickly than we could adapt—they learned to embed themselves into environments we couldn’t afford to use our precious arsenals in, and then they dared us to come after them. What we need, ideally, is to be able to locate and cut the terrorist out of highly populated areas quickly and efficiently without incurring civilian casualties, or risking unacceptable losses of our own troops. We also need to be able to fight the terrorist face-to-face, so we can confirm our accuracy and effectiveness immediately, instead of trying to positively ID a target vaporized by a missile or smart-bomb; or even uglier: trying to defend ourselves in the Media against claims that we killed innocents instead of combatants. And we need to show the terrorist and the public that we are both willing and able to make this a face-to-face fight, instead of hitting from distance with drones and long-range weapons and looking like cowards.

  “As for the new kind of soldier, we now have that: individual troops with armor and weapons and interface systems that can excise a small army of terrorists holed up in a crowded neighborhood or a delicate shrine or a school full of children without incurring any collateral damage. We call this new soldier a ‘Tactical.’ And, ladies and gentlemen of the Assembly, they will be yours. That is essential to this proposal. The UN already has eighty-thousand assorted troops and personnel scattered in two-dozen countries, but they serve only by the generous cooperation of their home nations. The proposal is on the table that the Tacticals be employed directly by the Security Council, commanded by a new Military Staff Subcommittee under a restructured CTC—what my esteemed colleagues have tentatively named the Action Committee on Terrorism. And not for any nation’s political agenda, but for the simple purpose of hunting down those who would slaughter innocent people in order to bend the world to their will.

  “While it is not my place to put this plan before you, I feel that it is important that I speak as a representative of those like me who have chosen to wear this armor, to tell you that I believe in this vision enou
gh to swear an oath of service to the Council, an oath that I know may override my oath to serve my own country. This will not be a step that I—or any of my fellows—will take lightly. But if there is to be any real trust in the authenticity of what we propose, we must demonstrate that our service is to the world, not to any one nation. And that, ladies and gentlemen of the Assembly, is your new kind of soldier.”

  There is a rumbling in the galleries, but also up through the ranks of delegates. You have dropped the bomb that you needed to. Now you simply change the subject before they can assess what it will mean.

  “As for the new kind of intelligence, since that’s not my area of expertise, I defer to Doctor Scott Becker of the McCain Foundation.

  “Thank you for your time, your attention, and your tolerance.”

  More chuckles at your deadpan self-deprecation, as you bow as gracefully as you can in the bulk of your armor, and walk off to turn the “stage” over to Doc, who looks like his tie is slowly strangling him as he walks out to take your place at the podium under the UN emblem. You look up at the galleries as you pass. Henderson gives you a nod and a grin. Miller and Collins look like they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  No reflection on Doc, who gets rolling with just a bit of a stammer as Datascan demonstrates mission scenarios overhead. It’s just that they all know The President of the United States is coming up next.

  “How’s your head?” Matthew chimes into your link as you make it into the wings.

  “Where I left it, I assume,” you return, a little unsure of the context of his question.

  “I heard about last night,” he clarifies with a steadily building innuendo. “You apparently got so plowed with pre-game jitters that you passed out on poor Lieutenant Ava’s sofa and didn’t make it home. That’s her story, anyway.”

  “Ah,” you try not to feed into his immaturity. “That.”

  “Funny,” he pushes it. “Just doesn’t sound like you.”

  “Things change,” you allow him.

  “Good for you,” he plays in, sounding like he honestly means it. “Glad to hear it.”

  “So how was my Captain Kirk impression today?” you change the subject.

  “More Jean-Luc Picard this time—you’re maturing. Poor Doc still looks like he’s about to have a stroke, though.”

  “It’s the tie.”

  “Major Ram?” A live voice comes from behind, very familiar—at least from the news and a good dozen comedians’ impressions. Turning, there’s a cluster of dark gray and navy blue tailored suits standing roughly in a kind of formation. The man on point offers his hand and the almost unnatural smile he won his last election with. “An honor to meet you, son.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. The honor is all mine.” You pull off your right gauntlet and take his hand as firmly as he grasps yours.

  “Great speech. You should consider a career in politics.”

  “Not on a bet, sir.”

  He smiles wider, tries to look fraternal. “I just hope I do justice to following you out there.”

  “I’m just glad I could go first, sir.”

  Matthew is laughing his ass off on your link.

  “Listen, Major… I’d like you to do me a favor and walk out with me afterwards. I’m having a little meet-and-greet back at the White House and I’d like you to drop by, press some flesh, talk about the future, get to know you a little better.”

  “I’d be honored, sir. I…probably should change first.” You hold up your bulky armored sleeves.

  “I can have a fresh dress uniform sent over,” he offers insistently, apparently not wanting you to get away from him.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “My pleasure, Major.”

  His personal guard of Secret Service suits move him off to get ready for his grand entrance. He’s bound and determined to embrace this, to keep it appearing above board, and to assure the UN—with the whole world watching—that he will guarantee that control of the Joint Tactical Force is placed solely in the hands of the membership (and reversing the go-it-alone mandates of his predecessors that have dominated the War on Terror since 9-11). Part of that, it appears, is making an effort to convince the world he’s not afraid to be seen with the most visible players, especially after the closed-session with the Security Council was too easily interpreted as an attempt to hide an American agenda to control and militarize the UN.

  “Okay,” Matthew pants into your link, collecting himself. “That was just… surreal…”

  “My whole life is surreal, Matthew.”

  “True.”

  An hour later, the President is done insisting that the United States will not hold the reins of either Datascan or the Tactical Teams, and his entourage finds you to set you up for what comes next:

  You get herded in with his protection detail. Your own team of players (Richards, Becker, Lisa) is left somewhere far behind in all the directed chaos.

  “It’s just a photo-op,” Henderson pipes in on your link to reassure. “He’s got his motorcade parked out under the flags, where all the Press can see him—and see you leaving with him. There’ll be some waving and maybe a sound-bite or two. Then just go enjoy the party.”

  “Somebody get my sidearm back from main security,” you ask no one in particular.

  “Already taken care of, Major,” Henderson gives you quickly.

  “Don’t do anything I would do,” Matthew inserts himself, letting through just a hint of his frustration of being made to watch from the Basement. Again. “And I expect you home by eleven, mister.”

  “Not a problem,” you assure him.

  One of the UN security suits almost immediately comes running up after you, calls your name, hands you a secure hard case and keys it open for you. It’s your automag.

  “Talk about service…” you mutter. You say thank you and he disappears with a polite “My pleasure, Major.”

  You check the weapon and finds it’s loaded—more so: it’s been chambered, Condition One cocked-and-locked, ready to fire. Odd—you’re sure you’d emptied it when you handed it over—you never check in a loaded weapon.

  You slip it back in your thigh rig as discreetly as possible. The Secret Service agents flanking you seem only concerned with keeping the pace, staying on schedule.

  We rush in rough formation out through a side entrance, bypassing the secure garages (where they would have met the limos if they had just preferred to leave without running into the Press), and you’re out into the sunlight. You flinch and go digging for your interface glasses, but the agents around you keep everybody in the entourage moving, and the crowd waiting is probably bigger than they had initially anticipated.

  The caravan of armored limos that make up the executive motorcade sits in the long, open drive that fronts the domed Assembly Building with its famous line of national flags. The long black cars and SUVs wait perfectly lined up just inside the barricades and police-armor of the makeshift security cordon. On the other side, waiting with anxious patience, are several hundred bodies—a few dozen of them wired with Press-gear, but the majority look like a selection of party-followers, well-wishers and supporters who knew well in advance that the President would be coming out this way. It’s very clearly a staged appearance—all the visible protesters have been held well back—which is when you remember that the election is barely two weeks away, and he’s been sliding in the polls.

  The President is barely visible behind his living wall of security, as he changes course just short of his limo to wave to his supporters. Your escorts gently prod you to follow, apparently calculating exactly how close you should be standing to him to make the appropriate impression. He approaches the cordon with his famous smile beaming and goes to the ritual of pressing flesh, while you probably look like his very uncomfortable date.

  “No shades, please, Major,” one of them prompts you as you try to get your interface glasses on. “Just…”

  “ATTACK DETECTED…” Datascan blares in you
r link. And then you hear the almost-buzzing rattle that you know is a Fletcher. And screaming.

  The crowd seems to break like a wave against the cordon and the Secret Service suits lunge to cover their charge with their bodies and get their weapons out of their suits and you can almost see the storm of flechettes tear into them.

  Datascan starts feeding you the urgent professional panic that floods the Secret Service and UN Security channels as they try to pick their target out of the crowd, try to get a sniper shot. You try to hold your position in the middle of the shoving and running and diving. And right in front of you, the crowd falls like the sea parting around the eye of the storm:

  It’s just a kid. Blonde haired. Blue eyed. Bad skin. Maybe fifteen. Wide-eyed and howling his head off in an undecipherable swirl of obscenities, looking like this is the greatest rush on the planet, spraying everything in sight until his weapon clicks empty.

  Like a pro, he slaps a new magazine into the ceramic and nano-carbon automatic he shouldn’t conceivably have and starts spraying more armor-piercing darts at the heap of bodies trying to protect what must still be the President under them. And looking at him, you’re not sure if he knows that he’s only about five seconds away from getting his spine severed by any of the Federal or NYPD snipers covering the site, but he does know enough to keep moving with the crowd to make a difficult target, his weapon cutting into anybody who gets brave enough to try to grab him.

  And you feel your blood charge and your face tics up into your Manticore grin (and your face feels wet and you realize that one of the darts has cut you just below the left eye) and you reach down and fill your hand and raise the automag and lock the muzzle on that triumphant screaming crying cursing contorted child’s face and you can see his eyes go wide as he looks straight down the maw of it and you do the only thing that your rage says makes any sense.

  Breathe. Let go. Let it happen.

  One shot. One life.