When Diplomacy Fails… fc-3

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “That tall building is interfering.”

  “Yes, definitely beyond that.”

  Elke said, “Your area is approximately seven five zero zero square meters. Sergeant Tames, if you can move thirty meters north to the corner, check your density there.”

  The captain nodded, and the sergeant with two second classes moved that way, checking for threats.

  Tames said, “Probably east of me here.”

  Jason moved down an alley, Alex and Bart covering him along with their escorts.

  A burst of fire made Jason flinch and duck.

  He said, “Contact right front,” as someone else shouted, “Contact left!”

  Whoever was shooting had bad aim and poor weapons. He recognized the muzzle cracks as Brasarms carbines. There were lots of them here, sold cheap for police use and stolen for factional fighting. They were cheap, and marginal, and cheap. However, they put bullets downrange, and he was downrange. He hunkered down against a building wall and crabbed around into an alley. He went across the alley. Bart backed into the opening, facing the street. Their troop escorts did stay close, and tensed with their weapons.

  He spoke to his chaperone. “I want to suppress and advance.”

  The sergeant looked around nervously, then nodded. “Agreed.”

  “I’m moving.” He swung, fired a burst, sprinted across the narrow alley, which had suddenly devoided of people. He reached the far wall, fired a burst straight up parallel to it, and another high around the corner, as the soldier sprinted over.

  Heavy fire from a Grumbly’s cannon echoed down the walls, booms turning tinny and hollow.

  The troop said, “It’s apparently some random potshots. Three locations, not coordinated, seem to be dispersed.”

  “What does the captain say?”

  Right then, his earbuds spoke. “Argonaut, Playwright. Bars reports containment. Advise your movements.”

  “One square red.” South. “I can advance.”

  “He’s ready,” Alex said to Rowe as he came up. “Unless you want to sweep and secure first?”

  “What’s your preference?”

  “Hell with that, let’s get in and get Aramis, then we can operate as a mass unit.”

  The captain nodded. “Yeah, since you fuckers are going to do that anyway. Lead, then.”

  There were no overt signs of previous combat in this area, which was probably why it had been chosen. Ground of the enemy’s choosing was not ideal, but they should have the upper hand tactically.

  “Do you have observation all around?”

  “Cameras on three Grumblies, two Dragonfly drones at five hundred meters, and the evac bird three klicks north.” Rowe gestured with a hand.

  “We have the south approach. Do you have anything for containment?”

  “Same Grumblies and crews.”

  “I would like to have them dismount and patrol, sir.”

  “Very well, stand by.”

  He’d give the captain this: the man took it seriously and was playing by the rules but with practicality.

  “They’re dismounted and advancing slowly,” Rowe said.

  Alex spoke on his voicemitter. “Team, we want to be dynamic and watch for collaterals. I’m quite sure they’ve got buddy berms. Approach orders from the captain. Sir?” he said as he turned.

  Rowe said, “Thank you, by my orders, advance in leapfrog.”

  Alex waited for the first movement, then he and the captain jogged forward. There was no fire, and people left the streets as soon as they saw troops with guns. Of course, that meant a good chance the enemy knew they were approaching.

  Then it was time to advance again, past doorways, alleys and enclosures locked or barred or full of pedestrians. Vehicles traveling by accelerated to clear the area. Passing a woman and three kids huddled into an entryway, he gave a short, quick wave. Hopefully they’d grasp that they weren’t of military interest.

  This was an actual military assault, and he sweated and shook. Aramis had experience doing this. On paper, Alex had no actual combat experience. All his was escorting principals to safety, and the only rule of engagement was “keep them alive.” Here, he was very much accountable, easier to predict, and the principal was not under his control. Getting that control risked Aramis’s death.

  Still, there was nothing to do but go forward.

  Then they were across the street and huddled themselves, trying not to present targets or recognizable military appearances.

  Elke came alongside and he asked, “Are we positive it’s this building?”

  She waved a scanner. “Yes, I can pick up a second trace, of a secondary chemical. This building.” She nodded.

  “What’s in there, officially?”

  The captain said, “Paradise Clothing. They seem to make garb for Muslims and Christians both, middle class.”

  “Track the owner later. What do we have on intel?”

  “Right now it looks like people sewing. I’m reluctant to deploy drones. They’ll be obvious in this environment.”

  They’d also be subject to damage and loss, which he’d have to account for. Though that might not be fair. They would be easy to spot. There was little airborne traffic of any kind.

  Elke said, “Let me take a scan.” She unslung her shotgun and fired a recon round up past the windows. She scrolled the images on her glasses.

  “The quality is not good, and the frame is small, as well as blurred from speed. There are occupants, several, male. There is a lot of debris. I note rags and cloths and possible bloodstains.”

  Alex said, “Good enough for me. We’ll kick it and try. We have lawyers if we’re wrong.” He looked at the captain.

  Rowe sighed and twisted his mouth. “I don’t like the potential collaterals, but I don’t see how it can get better if we wait. Go ahead and tell your people. We’ll lead.”

  Elke rose and sprinted fearlessly, with everyone else playing catch up. She obviously took her buddy’s safety personally.

  One nice thing about the shots outside, they offered distraction. The team might be compromised already, or the engagement might be taken as some random interplay. Either way, though, it was noisy. They were quiet. Anyone looking for them should be looking in the wrong place.

  They ran to the entrance, and Elke pressed the door switch. It slid, they swarmed through into a very obvious sewing shop. There were gasps but no outright shouts or screams, and several troops raised fingers to lips then held calming hands out. Alex headed up the broad stairs with Elke and Jason each a half step behind, Shaman and Bart flowing through the door and falling in. They moved in practiced, gliding steps that minimized noise. There was still quite a bit of shuffling and clattering and some yelps from the workers. If they hadn’t been compromised already, they were now.

  Jason rose up the stairs. There was a bare landing about a meter square, a featureless metal door, needing some kind of signal or having a hidden touchplate for access.

  Jason was not minded to be picky. They stacked, Elke slapped a charge against the door, gave a thumbs up. Shaman goosed Jason, he goosed Elke, she fired the charge. Smoke and sparks fled in an arc. Bart managed to fit his bulk into the available space, and kicked the door off the tattered remnants of its hinges. He went right, Elke went left, Jason stepped right across the downed door, hearing a muffled grunt from someone trapped underneath it when it fell. Behind him, a shot indicated Alex had stopped the man’s pain permanently. Yes, there was a weapon next to the corpse. Good kill. Eddying dust roiled up in light from the windows. The hostiles should probably have covered those, but it might have drawn attention. This place was long abandoned.

  Elke and Bart were shooting, and he had targets ahead of him. He fluttered his finger on the trigger, pointing as he moved, treating them as moving targets to his subjective stillness. He shot four before any of them could fall. He got the last one right under his raised weapon and high on the chest.

  Bart called, “Right blue clear.” Elke said, “Left blue
clear,” very calmly. Alex said, “Left red clear.”

  That left one man behind a bloody sack that was Aramis, raising a pistol toward Aramis’s head. Jason put a bullet right through the hand and gun, and a second two centimeters past Aramis’ ear, directly into the thug’s right eye. He convulsed with a gurgle and collapsed, his hooked left arm half-hanging on Aramis’ restrained body until he slipped free. Aramis gurgled too, and moaned.

  “Right red clear. Babs sweep, Bart run a patrol, Playwright, we need evac.”

  Then the Recon team burst right in behind them, and stopped.

  The captain stuttered for a moment, then said, “Well done, contractors. Barnes, help with their casualty.”

  The combat medic was already three steps forward, his ruck unslung as he reached for gear.

  Jason tried not to look at the ruined mess that was his young friend. Elke looked greenish behind her ears and around her mouth, but swallowed, squinted and stayed with it. Shaman ran forward with his pack. Jason decided he’d better at least look and see if he could serve backup.

  The man was a beaten mess, though most of his insides still seemed to be inside, and intact. He might have died from trauma, but not from hypovolemic shock. If he’d died. Jason wasn’t sure if surviving this was positive. Gingerly, three people supported him, while one drew a knife and cut the tape restraints. They kicked debris aside and laid him down.

  “Alive,” Shaman said. “Pulse weak but steady, breathing labored but adequate, no major head trauma.” He spoke all this as he helped handle the naked body. Aramis had great muscle tone, but it didn’t show now. He was just a flesh-colored mannequin, lacking any vitality.

  There might not be major head trauma, but his jaw and cheeks were ugly. It looked like a slightly-reduced form of the ancient Hawaiian execution, with most of the bones broken, to be followed by eye gouging and eventually shattering blows to the clavicles.

  He had no idea why that had suddenly come to mind, except that.. ah, right. Shaman now lived in Hawaii. The brain was capable of the most fucked up connections.

  But they had him down and in a basket, with monitors. Sergeant Barnes was solidly professional, running an IV line at Shaman’s direction and checking for critical trauma or bleeding in the legs, then for spine damage. Shaman did the rest. Elke and Bart mumbled ill comments and pulled back to maintain a perimeter.

  It stank. Aramis had leaked from all ends, sweated, bled. The building hadn’t been too clean to start with. There was now the stench of smoke and explosive debris, and he felt a tickle of dust catch in his throat.

  Shaman sprinkled something, said, “He’s stable enough. Let’s depart.”

  They backed out, with Elke screening them with smoke against any prying cameras. They left the bodies for the military to deal with. They could claim or blame as they wished.

  Jason decided they would find out who was behind this. He’d make calls to acquaintances if need be. Then he’d pay a visit.

  Outside, Bart watched with concern as they loaded Aramis into a military ambulance under dim red sunlight. Shaman jumped aboard and said, “I’ll see you on base.” Two troops slapped the doors closed and it rolled, joined in convoy by two Grumblies and an ARPAC.

  Without waiting for clearance, Bart slid into their vehicle, as Elke dove straight through the window. Marlow and Vaughn used the doors, but weren’t much slower. He counted four heads, then accelerated before the captain could complain about anything.

  They drove back at race speeds, Bart slaloming through traffic, using horn and attitude to clear a route. They had an appointment with Highland, but also to make sure Aramis arrived safely.

  Pedestrians here fell into two classes. Those who were very cautious and polite, and those who seemed suicidal. They would ignore the vehicle until it was on them, then skip aside barely enough that he felt the fenders brush their clothes. It would be bad to kill any. It would mean admin and delays.

  Behind him, he heard Alex speaking into his phone. “Cady, we’re coming in the back. I want to avoid any military debrief, and get out fast with Highland. I need two people to fill in. Thanks.”

  He spoke louder. “We’re changing to suits fast-just clean up with alcohol gel. Lionel and Corcoran are filling in.”

  “When is departure time?”

  “This says she moved it up on us. Fifteen minutes from now. How far are we from the gate?”

  “At this speed, about ten minutes.”

  “Go faster.”

  “I need a clearer path.”

  Elke said, “Turn left up here, and I’ll take the top.” She slipped restraints, braced her feet and stood behind him.

  He heard Marlow curse. Elke fired a short burst. Marlow fumbled with his phone. “Warning shots, we’re firing warning shots. No engagement. I understand policy. Circumstances dictate threats but not engagement.”

  He clicked off the connection and said, “We may as well call the lawyers now. This is going to be a nightmare.”

  The city thinned out and the route became narrower, but less busy. He rolled onto the fused shoulder to pass a driver who had a dopy look and was picking his nose.

  At last he came to the outer perimeter that IDed the vehicle and let him past, the first slalom barricade, the scanners the military didn’t know they knew about.

  “Cady’s waiting.”

  “Understood.”

  Even out here there was a military post, and patrols, but it was officially BuState jurisdiction. The troops on duty were lesser paid contractors who did a reasonably professional job. Cady waited at the third ring, and waved.

  Bart slowed but didn’t quite stop. Cady vaulted onto the hood and grabbed a tiedown ring. He accelerated slightly. In moments they reached the berm, wire, tanglers and stunners that protected the fence, along with the manned machine gun and auto cannon that officially didn’t. Cady waved again, the outer gate opened, and they locked through to the inner berm.

  There was Highland and Jessie, fidgeting and waiting. He slowed and turned. He pulled up on the next side of the building so as not to be seen.

  The others debarked and he followed, all of them at a run. Cady spoke into her phone, “Lionel, Corcoran, go.” She pressed off and said, “They’ll meet her and calm her. We need to roll in four minutes.”

  Jason zipped out of the blouse, kicked off his boots, dropped trousers and grabbed the alcohol gel, the soldier’s best friend when water wasn’t available, or not in time. It cooled the exertion he felt, and most of his sweat evaporated with it. Someone had laid their suits out. He grabbed shirt, threw on jacket, pulled on pants and used the thoughtfully placed shoehorn to slip into his already tied shoes. He could adjust everything in the vehicle.

  They made it down in three minutes, stuffing shirts into waistbands in the elevator, and checking stunners and handguns. Cady and her men were outside, ushering Highland into the ARPAC. They followed her, and the four sprinted out.

  Once aboard the vehicle, they were subjected to Highland’s random seething rage. Lionel and Corcoran had managed to get her seated. She half rose and stood in an uncomfortable crouch as she railed against them.

  “I don’t know what you were playing at, sightseeing when I have a schedule to keep. I will be communicating with your headquarters to note a very unsatisfactory attention to the job.”

  Jason kept a close eye on everyone. Elke had a faint expression of annoyance, which was bad. However, she was controlled, not fixed in place. Jason’s jaw worked. He was quite angry, but seemed to have tuned her out.

  Highland, though, was managing to escalate herself. Jason wasn’t sure if there was any approach that wouldn’t piss her off.

  “It’s fine to sit there pretending I don’t exist. It’s an admission of unprofessionalism…”

  He checked his contact sedatives. She really might need one, judging from her vitals. Her pulse was over 120, and oscillating moment to moment. Her BP was edging into unhealthy territory. She was visibly agitated and trembling from hormonal
overload. He wished Shaman were here. This was much more his tasking.

  Perhaps a tranquilizer would be better. If she missed her speech, she’d only be that much more incensed.

  However, she gradually tapered off, seeming to run out of things to say. As she did so, her vitals lowered. It would be a tense speech, but that might work to her favor. If, of course, she realized that.

  She did eventually wind down, and upon arriving at the destination debarked and was gracious, at least to the press and her supporters, in public.

  Twice Jason checked his phone with a surreptitious sweep of his glasses. Both messages were that Aramis was stable, and had improving vitals. Shaman mentioned various nano and pharmaceutical treatments. Beyond the cursory level, they were past Jason’s medical knowledge.

  Otherwise, the event was without incident and they all traveled back in silence. Highland didn’t seem to be aware of Aramis’s and Shaman’s absence and no one seemed inclined to mention it. Elke for one napped leaning against the bulkhead of the ARPAC, her head rocking and swaying as the vehicle shifted.

  They were all agitated on return. Cady had more people waiting, who immediately took charge of the ARPAC. Bart ran to the vehicle park and returned at once in a standard staff car. They checked out at the gate and headed straight to the military clinic.

  Everyone seemed to know who they were, which had both bad and good connotations. Any semblance of anonymity was gone. For now, though, it got them through protocol quickly.

  Shaman met them outside the Major Care Unit. That was a positive sign.

  Shaman said, “Yes, he’s stable. He will certainly survive. He will almost certainly be fit to resume duties after treatment. There was quite an argument about the ground ebony powder I sprinkled on his pillow. I had to assure the doctor it was both a religious necessity for Aramis, and fully sterilized for medical purposes. I did not mention the garlic cloves in three locations. They are dry and should not present a problem.”

  Jason still didn’t know if the witch doctory Shaman insisted upon was done seriously, in gleeful mockery of modern medicine, or as a cultural practice for his own comfort. It might be all of them. Or he just might figure it couldn’t hurt to toss the stuff in. Regardless of that, the man was a hell of a cutter in the field and a first class surgeon in the clinic. If he said Aramis was going to recover, that was the end of it.