Standing in the Storm

by Webb, William Alan

  Snowtiger was a meat eater. In the language of her people, she was a nan abi — a killer. The other women in combat roles were also trained to kill, and some had, but snipers were different. Snipers did not flank the enemy, they did not recon enemy positions or overrun rear areas to cut off supplies or capture objectives. Snipers had one mission and only one mission: to kill people. Snipers singled you out for destruction in the most personal way possible. They studied your face and counted your breaths before squeezing the trigger. When their rifle recoiled and the bullet spun through the air and smacked you in the side of the head, it took away everything you had, everything you ever would have. All your dreams, plans, and hopes were extinguished forever because the sniper chose you to die. They killed in a way that few people could, and it elicited a primal fear in those who could not.

  She became aware her mere presence made some of the women nervous. Some of the men, too, and after a while Snowtiger went back to being Snowtiger.

  Without realizing it, she once again began walking on the balls of her feet. Her subconscious began reading other people’s body movements and gestures. Her eyes missed nothing, and her brain processed images as threat assessments again. Her new friends feared her for the killer she was. Like all those who are not themselves afraid, Snowtiger instinctively mistrusted them for their fear.

  Her immediate superiors had worried she might hesitate when it next came time to pull the trigger. When she regained her swagger, they stopped worrying.

  She was in her bunk staring at the ceiling when the call-out came.

  “Ears and rears, ladies!” Sergeant Norma Spears yelled from the main doorway. “Fall in at your racks and listen up!” Snowtiger swung her legs over the rail and landed on her toes as women scurried to find their bunks. Within ten seconds everyone stood at attention.

  “The battalion will assemble at 1430 hours in full gear in Motor Bay C. For those of you who haven’t been paying attention, that’s where we have been training. We are exiting this underground playpen for prolonged operations. For those of you in the field force, draw five days’ rations and maximum ammo. You have ten minutes to gear up, Marines, so get your fat asses moving!”

  Chapter 17

  If you’re going through Hell, keep going.

  Winston Churchill

  1451 hours, July 28

  Morgan Randall knew the company CO hated half-assed planning. Captain Robert Malkinovich, commander of Alpha Company, First Armored Battalion, had told her and her platoon leader that less than five minutes earlier. He’d confided his long-held belief that poor battle plans got people killed unnecessarily, and she had to admit Operation Kickass felt thrown together. But orders were orders and their company would be Oscar Mike on time, ready or not.

  “Listen up, CDATs—” computerized dumb-ass tankers “—I know the big question is Will we be operating as a battalion?” Malkinovich said, shouting to be heard. Their fourteen M1A3 Abrams were at the far end of Motor Bay C, well away from where the Marine Recon Battalion had begun to assemble. “And the answer is no, we will not. You’re wearing TUSK for a reason. We will be on the heels of the SEALs for this operation, as will the MARSOCs. We will be operating in an urban environment filled with hostiles, neutrals, and friendlies. The ROE is simple: no angels. Got that? The safety of you, your comrades, and your weapons systems is more important than anything else. I want every tank, and every person in that tank, to get home in one piece. Our code name is Task Force Bulldozer. Your platoon leaders are Bulldozer One, Bulldozer Two, and Bulldozer Three. If you’re the fourth tank in the first squad, first platoon, you’re Bulldozer One One Four. I am Bulldozer Prime; Lieutenant Embry is Prime Two. Any questions?”

  Morgan Randall had a lot of questions, but one in particular bothered her. Sitting in the hatch of Bulldozer One One Two, as executive officer of First Platoon she wanted to ask why the mix of shells included extra armor piercing rounds — M829s — if they were going into urban combat. The M1028 canister rounds she understood, but why the kinetic energy ones? She started to raise her hand when Malkinovich dismissed them.

  Toy could tell something was eating at her, though. When she told him what, he told her to ask the platoon commander, Lieutenant Tensikaya, in the tank next to hers. Tensikaya had no idea about the AP, though. He told her to go ask the captain if she was that worried about it. Jumping to the ground, Randall approached Malkinovich while he spoke with the company executive officer, Lieutenant Embry.

  “Captain?” she said. “A word, sir?”

  “Go ahead, Lieutenant, but make it quick. What’s on your mind?”

  “Sir, I couldn’t help noticing we’re carrying more M829s than usual. KE isn’t much good against buildings, and I’m wondering if I should be looking for something in particular that might call for KE rounds.”

  “Nice catch, Lieutenant. I should have mentioned it. That’s what happens when you throw an op together at the last minute. Intel says there might be hostile armor in the city, Bradleys and maybe M1s. You never know when you’ll need one last KE round to finish them off. But even if you don’t need them in the city, it’s what they say is coming at us from the west that’s a problem.”

  “The west, Captain? I don’t follow.”

  “Word I get is, there’s supposed to be an enemy column closing on Prescott from the west. An armored column. Specifically, a Chinese armored column.”

  “Chinese?”

  “As in People’s Liberation Army. Yes, Lieutenant, those Chinese.”

  Joe Randall didn’t wait for the Emvee to stop before he jumped off and ran for the hangar bay. He sprinted through the open double doors and down the metal mesh stairs. Synchronized chaos danced to the music of power tools as hundreds of ground crew readied the helicopter gunships for battle. Led by Sergeant Rossi, his own crew scurried around Tank Girl, arming and fueling the massive helicopter, with Carlos directing traffic and ticking items off his pre-flight checklist.

  “Bunny, what’s the Mike?”

  Carlos turned and gave him the usual Where have you been? look. “The mission is getting ready for combat, sir. To that end, I directed Sergeant Rossi to prep the aircraft. I trust that meets with your approval, Captain?”

  Randall returned Carlos’ expression with his own Knock it off, dipshit expression, since he could not say that in front of the enlisted personnel. “Thank you, Lieutenant, for displaying the military courtesy and deference you should always show me. Do we have specific orders, or are we just standing by to stand by?”

  Carolos relaxed, having gotten his point across. “Nothing specific. PNN—” the Private News Network “—has the entire brigade moving out around 1500 hours, but nothing more. The Apaches were ordered to be combat ready by then, but we were just ordered to fuel and ammo up, and stand by for further orders.”

  “So we really are standing by to stand by?”

  “Looks that way, but whatever we’re doing, we’re rolling with a lot of ass.”

  “What’s the package?”

  “One each on the gun pods, max ammo, max Dragonfires, half HE and half AP.”

  “We’re hauling fifties and thirty millimeters?”

  “Grade-A straight. And get this, Joe… the thirties are AP EXACTO rounds.”

  “AP EXACTOs? What the hell? We’re hunting armor?” Randall said.

  “How should I know? One thing’s sure — somebody’s expecting a shit sandwich.”

  “With a side order of fucked fries. EXACTOs… damn.”

  Randall turned to change into his flight suit, but stopped when he saw Rossi unpacking two large, steel squares filled with tubes. “Rossi, what’s up with the flares?”

  Sergeant Rossi brushed hair from her face. Randall had never realized how young she looked.

  “Package four double A, Captain, per orders.”

  “We’ve got CIRCM—” common infrared countermeasures “—already, and we’re getting flares, too?” He turned back to Carlos. “Bunny, AP and flares? And nobody has s
aid anything about what we’re supposed to find out there?”

  “Just the usual bullshit. In fact, it doesn’t even rise to PNN-level BS. This is more like fantasy bullshit.”

  “Fine, it’s fantasy bullshit. You’re absolved.”

  “Just remember my BS meter’s in the red… Chinese. The bullshit highway says we’re facing a Chinese column, size and composition unknown.”

  Randall could think of nothing to say. Finally, after more than five seconds, he said the first thing that had come to his mind: “Damn. What am I going to play?”

  “That’s what you’re worried about, what music to play? C’mon, man, you’re starting to piss me off.”

  “I’m always starting to piss you off.”

  “You need to stop worrying about that nonsense before you get us both killed. You were born to fly, to put fire on the target, to kill bad guys, not worry about fucking music. It’s ridiculous.”

  Randall started to say something, then stopped and snapped his fingers. “Born to kill bad guys… Bunny, you’re a genius.”

  “Aw, fuck,” Carlos said.

  “You’re not going and that’s that,” Green Ghost said.

  “Why the fuck not?” Nipple said.

  “Because I said so. I need you here more than I need you there.”

  “You’re letting Aaron go and he’s an idiot.”

  Ghost’s face darkened. He jabbed a finger at her. “His name is Vapor. Always. You know that.”

  “Have it your way. You’re letting that idiot Vapor go. And Wingnut, and he can’t even talk.”

  “Stop it. I need you here and that’s that. Glide is staying, too, and One Eye and Razor. When I’m in the field, it’s your job to keep the boss alive. We haven’t found all the conspirators yet and I’m not risking a coup while we’re preoccupied. Whatever happens, you’re to stick with him and keep him breathing.”

  “This sucks, Big Brother. I know why you’re doing this. You think I’m gonna start feeling some kind of attachment to him, and I’m not. I’ll never forgive him.”

  “I don’t give two shits how you feel about him. Just carry out your orders.”

  “What if it comes down to him or me? Who do you want to live?”

  “Don’t let it come to that.”

  Chapter 18

  When virtue has slept, it will arise again all the fresher.

  Friedrich Nietsche, from Human, All Too Human

  Prescott, Arizona

  1702 hours, July 28

  Lisa Parfist sat and tried not to move. Breathing the hot air seared her lungs and the more she moved, the deeper she had to inhale. The stale atmosphere inside the dilapidated gym tasted like old fish. The air was so fetid it seemed tactile, like an oily mist hanging over an infected landscape.

  Despite the hunger twisting her stomach, the stench made it impossible to eat without gagging. Instead she gave her portions to her children, who somehow choked them down.

  She tried to count the people crammed into the building, but gave up. She was too tired to concentrate, and in the end it did not matter. A thousand people, two thousand… they were all in the same cage. Every now and then the guards dragged a body out, usually by the ankles. They only carried the corpses of small children.

  The Guards had herded her family into Prescott like cattle, prodding them with rifles and cramming them into the school along with hundreds of others. In the early days, Lisa had befriended an old man bleeding from a deep wound in his thigh. She’d stuffed it with dirty rags and did what she could to stop the oozing, but infection had already turned the leg black. As he lay dying, he’d told her stories of having played high school basketball in that very building, of this or that game when he’d done something heroic.

  He’d spoken of things she could only imagine, since they were long gone by the time she’d been born. He’d told her about the high school friendships and rivalries you developed, the cheerleaders, soft drinks, the smell of popcorn, and the taste of corn dogs — all unique American experiences, and all long since gone. On the third morning he’d grinned, sat upright, and blurted Where’s the mustard!, then fell sideways into the pool of his own blood. Flies had swarmed over the corpse.

  Lisa Parfist tried to cry, but was too dehydrated for tears.

  She had no idea how long his body lay there. Marking time was only possible by observing the daylight seeping through the windows near the ceiling. She only knew it was long enough for the body to bloat and for maggots to infest the dead flesh. When the stench of rotting corpses became unbearable, four Security Policemen had dragged them from the gym. They’d mopped the sticky puddles of blood but only managed to smear it into larger pools.

  In the first few days, Lisa’s two children had wandered through the huge room. She’d let them, hoping they might burn off the restless energy of adolescents used to living in the wilds of the desert. But with little food or water, their energy levels had dropped, and soon they sat beside her and rarely spoke. Twelve-year-old Rick, Jr., had a friend also held captive, so he would still leave sometimes to be with his friend. Fifteen-year-old Kayla stared into space most of the time, twirling dirty hair in her fingers.

  Despite their desperate situation, Lisa Parfist had not given up hope. Her husband Richard had escaped capture, and she had no doubt he would rescue them. As the week wore on, she stroked Kayla’s hair and whispered encouragement, promising her father would come for them.

  It seemed hopeless if she thought about it, one man against thousands, but she believed it anyway. She prided herself on being a practical woman who faced life’s challenges head-on. She made decisions using logic instead of emotion. But as the sweltering hell drained her body and mind, she clung to a belief everybody else would have said was fantasy. Richard would find a way to save his family. She knew it with absolute certainty.

  Lester Hull, known to his followers as General George Patton, scowled at the listless mass of prisoners crowding the old gymnasium. His temper was legendary. Arms crossed, his left fist clenched and unclenched, and guards standing nearby took a step back. Lieutenant Wimber did not. He had no choice but to stand his ground. The captives were his responsibility.

  “They’re like a herd of dying antelope,” Hull mumbled. His eyes narrowed.

  He shifted his gaze to the flag hanging on the far wall, the banner he’d designed to represent his fiefdom. Despite his republican rhetoric, he ruled his de facto kingdom as monarch. On taking power, he’d promised free elections once the Republic of Arizona was stable. That had been forty years ago.

  According to Hull, Prescott was now the capital of the legitimate government of the United States of America. His new flag featured one large white star in place of the original fifty, against a black background. The thirteen stripes were still there, but the red stripes were now black.

  “Still no sign of Tisky or Chu,” Lieutenant Wimber said. “Just a lot of boot prints leading up the hill.”

  Hull’s slit-eyed glare shut him up.

  “We’ll deal with that in a minute,” Hull said. “I put you in charge of these captives because I had faith you would obey orders and keep them in good condition. Now, the day before the single most important day in the history of our reborn Republic, I find that you have disobeyed my orders and put the whole deal in jeopardy.”

  Hull waved one hand toward the gym full of slaves. “Do you have any idea how much it cost to collect these people? To house them here, to feed them? It put a tremendous strain on our resources, but it was all going to be worth it because of the trade agreement we negotiated with the Chinese. We are getting more fuel per prisoner than ever before, but only with the promise that they’ll be in excellent physical condition. The Chinese don’t want sick slaves, ahd who can blame them? I trusted you, Wimber, and now I find this mess. Thank God I made this inspection. What’s your dead loss so far?”

  Wimber blinked in fear. Hull recognized it and continued frowning. Never let your subordinates get too comfortable.

  �
��Forty-seven, General,” Wimber said.

  “How many children?” Hull said.

  “Twenty-eight.”

  Hull balled his fist and pulled it back, like he was going to slug Wimber. “How could you let twenty-eight children die? Do you know how much we get for them?”

  “No, General. That’s above my clearance.”

  “You’re damned straight it is! And this,” he waved his arm again, encompassing the entire room, “is why!”

  There was nothing Wimber could do except stand there and hope he wouldn’t be executed.

  “Here’s what you’re going to do, Lieutenant,” Hull said. “You’re going to get these people some food and water. Then you’re going to clean this building, and you’re going to clean them. I don’t care how you do it, but when the Chinese get here tomorrow, I want these people as fresh as the day they were caught.

  “Consider yourself lucky, Wimber. I’m not going to punish you. In my past lives, I wouldn’t have shown this kind of mercy. When I was Hannibal, I tied men between two elephants and had them torn apart for lesser offenses. When I led my army out of the Alps, I had captives fight to the death and set the winners free. If this happened when I was Napoleon, I would have had you guillotined. But I learned a lot in the life before this one, so I’m going to give you a chance to redeem yourself, just as I would have done when I was Nick Angriff. They called me Nick the A, but I was pretty lenient by then, because all those previous lives had taught me patience.”

  “Thank you, General,” Wimber said with evident relief.

  “You’re getting a second chance.” Hull patted Wimber on the shoulder, although his voice remained stern. “Make me glad I gave it to you.”