The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Such was the case the day I got there. The commander of Black Operations Team Three, Captain Alan David Naumann, had just grabbed the command slot for 3rd Mobile Assault Regiment, to whom we were usually attached. This had two repercussions. First was that all the company and duty section commanders in 3rd Mob were pissed at SW again. Second was that we had a hole in our own chain of command to fill. There was a shuffle to do so, and I didn't realize this was all advantageous to my career.

  So I reported in instead to Captain Juletta Maron. The driver for the base taxi (junior troops except SW soldiers rotate that duty) gave me a quick tour and dropped me at 3rd SW Regiment HQ. I appraised the area as I would any combat zone. It was old but clean in minimalist fashion—grass and bushes perfect, one single pair of flamebushes a riot of crimson and orange aflank the entrance to the plain paneled building. I dropped my duffel and ruck inside the door and went about becoming known. We do this from the top down, so as to ensure everyone is familiar with the chain of command.

  I checked with the orderly, got my new commander's name since it wasn't "Naumann," knocked on her office and heard her bellow, "ENTER!" There was nothing wrong with her voice.

  I stepped in, snapped to and said, "Operative Kenneth Chinran reports as ordered, Captain." My voice didn't crack, and I felt confident. I looked her over. Short black hair, slightly graying, trim, slightly above average height for a woman and clearly self-secure.

  She saluted back, dropped it, and I raced her down, trying to be back at attention before she was. I made it, but her age was not slowing her down yet. It seemed we both had something to prove, being new. "Do you have an attitude problem, Chinran?" she asked.

  It was a bolt from the blue. What had I done to come across as non-reg? I was here less than one hundred seconds and I was being hit with that routine. What in the name of God and Goddess had I done?

  I decided, instantly and without conscious thought, to go on the offensive. I had nothing to be ashamed of and wasn't going to grovel. That would be the worst possible response. So I said, "As often as I can, ma'am."

  She nodded and said, "Good. I like that." It had been a test. "What do you go by, Chinran?"

  "Ken or Kenneth is fine, ma'am," I said, still quivering slightly from that first question.

  "And what's your hobby?"

  "Shooting, ma'am," I said.

  "Good hobby for an Operative. Let's get you up to speed."

  I met our First Sergeant, who would handle all my personnel issues. Senior Sergeant John C. ("Call me Sergeant Jack") Hayduke would almost qualify as a recruiting vid icon, taken from the neck down. His face was on the craggy side, which matched his office. He had imposing cliffs of rams, paper and folders, and his comm was idling. "Welcome," he said, all grins. "Good to have you." He ran me through a chart on his wallscreen, gave me a ramchip for reference on inprocessing, and sent me to our logistics element.

  SW troops are required to maintain all their gear at all times. We may deploy on short notice to almost anywhere in space, and our gear is specialized; it can't be acquired locally most of the time. This sounds smart theoretically, and is, but do you have any idea what it means in the real world?

  I already had my standard-issue weapon that I would keep for life. SW issued me a Merrill automatic carbine and an Alesis pistol, both in 7mm, sealed packs of clips, magazines and ammunition, grenades, demolition blocks and detonators, body armor, another knife and riot gear modified for use in clandestine takedowns. I got lock picks and coders, detection gear ranging from DNA sniffers and programs for my comm to binoculars and goggle/contact lens displays that worked on a variety of frequencies. There was a vac sled, an emgee maneuvering harness, a skintight suit with recycling gear and extra oxy bottles. Diving gear and more bottles, wet and dry water suits, chameleon camouflage and exomusculature gear, climbing gear, parachutes, ropes, tens of ramchips of documentation and training volumes, repair kits and a tool pack, along with harnesses, rucks and canteens rounded it out. Then I got dated food and water packs that I would consume on missions, or else they would be turned in when expired. I would use them on exercises, but only after replacing the amount expected to be used.

  All this fits packaged into a one-meter cube mounted on the sled, but to repack it requires warehouse facilities. I was warned not to open it to show off (much of it is stuff we hope is secret in detail, unlikely as that is), as unnecessary repacking would be charged to me. It was mine for the duration of my career, and when not on leave, it would be within short reach of me at all times. Freehold soldiers are armed at all times with at least a pistol, and my orders were to have a pistol on my person and my standard weapon with me or in my vehicle as well. I would need to buy a vehicle post haste. I didn't relish carrying the combo everywhere I went, which is why I'd already bought my own Taurus 8mm sidearm, smaller but as effective as the larger issue weapon.

  Being assigned a team did not mean I was trained. I had the basics, certainly, and was capable of chopping a typical foreign squad into sushi with my bare hands or any weapon. I was a trained killer from top to bottom, but I was not yet a specialist in the surgical skills of covert operations. That would take more time and in fact I'm still learning now, ten years—fifteen Earth years—later. That should scare you. It scares me. I could be more dangerous than I am.

  First, I had to have surgery for a CNS bioplant. Combat Neural Stimulant was secret for years, and isn't widely acknowledged now. Slangly known as "Boost," which I mentioned earlier, it is a combination of oxygenating compounds, adrenaline and other hormones, and glucose and other sugars, and I'm being deliberately hazy as to the ingredients. First of all, I don't know for certain what they are, but I can recognize it in use and tell the signs in an autopsy or blood analysis. Second, you don't need to know.

  The implant is a small artificially grown biological mechanism, implanted you don't need to know where, and can be recharged with additional doses fairly easily with a syringe or, ideally, by a nanocarrier if you have a modern hospital. The artificial organ doesn't show on most X-rays, CT scans or enzyme traces and is hard to see by eye even during an autopsy. Some nations give their troops extensive surgical enhancements, as we do for certain Blazer specialties, but that defeats the purpose of being "covert." Boost enables me to nearly halve my reaction time and increase my strength and speed a considerable percentage. Add that to my training and its physical enhancement is exceeded only by its psychological effect on an enemy.

  After that was real generalized specialist (pardon that phrase) training in the art of Black Operations. We'd qualified to be ammo humpers and bullet stops, to get there and set up shop, now we had to learn to dish it out when we got there. I hope by now none of you thinks of us as "dumb grunts." We were all better than Olympic quality athletes, more stubborn than mules and with intelligence ranging from borderline genius to right off the charts.

  Deni arrived and was promptly sent back out to Sniper school. I went to Advanced Demolitions. For six wonderful weeks I studied and planted charges on everything from starship hulls and planetoid installations to aircraft and house doors. Want to know how to take out the window on a 75th floor penthouse suite without scattering shards on the hostage two meters inside? I can do it. How about cracking the center spine on an al Jabr class Ramadanian cruiser without breaching the hull? Yup. You name it, if explosives can do it, I can set the charges.

  We met up again at NCO Leadership School. All Operatives regardless of rank go to NCOLS. We need to know how to plan operations for insurgents and lead them in battle. After that, we split again, she going to Russian Language School, I to Combat Medical. We moved around a lot, adding skills to our expertise in killing. As we traveled, we'd read up on the course basics for whatever we were to study and be prepared to test out of as much as we could. It saved time and was encouraged. I skipped three of six weeks of Combat Med, two weeks of Specialist Welding/Machining, and most of Basic Electronics. I bogged down in languages. My mother speaks ten, but I apparently
don't have her aptitude for grammar. Vocabulary and accent was no trouble, so comprehension wasn't my problem, just diction and my comprehensibility to others. I was adequate for combat, but not for the finer points of clandestine work. I cursed and studied and took hypno and more RNA learning boosters than "normal," which was a lot.

  Leadership School had the added complexity of having to learn the reorganized operation and personnel system. Briefly, until then, the FMF used 16 troop squads composed of three teams of four troops and a support pair with a machinegun, and two leaders. That was a good system, which I still heartily endorse, because it made for two buddy pairs per team and a third team for backup. The then new (and still current) doctrine called for twenty: three teams of six, the third being the weapons team, and two leaders. This added the third buddy pair to each team. Another plus was that we added two more support weapons in the hands of those extra pairs. The third team had an anti-tank gunner and assistant, a heavy machinegunner and ammo humper and a pair of combat marksmen (SpecWar teams get bona fide snipers). Thus split, we could do more damage. I'll work with either approach, as they both have their pluses and minuses.

  I did fine in the Technical Physical Security course, which is a polite term for breaking, entering, lockpicking, code bypassing, and other rudeness. It's taught by Operatives and by contractors of two types. The first type are either veterans or professionals who take a test whereby they crack a security perimeter. The second type are criminals who eventually got caught doing the same thing unofficially. Both were good, they just had different approaches.

  The most fun was the class in Manners and Etiquette, slangly known as "Pie With A Fork," which I'm told is a literary reference. We had to learn how to be polite, make small talk, dance, eat cake without making crumbs, sip wine and dine at a formal event. Keep in mind that while doing this, we are staking the place for its security provisions and plotting a way in or out, or else swiping as much overheard intelligence as possible and grilling other guests for data while being courteous and saying nothing. I can eat appropriately to any culture known, and fake well in an unknown circumstance after a few seconds of surreptitious observation. One of our tests involved a "drunk" host who played with his food, wiped his nose on the tablecloth, drank until the booze spilled over his lips, and was generally a slob. So were his other "guests," and the trainees were graded on how long it took us to fall into the routine. We also ate raw rat and rancid yellow roe at that one, without making faces. I can't recommend either as a delicacy. I can suggest a wine, order an appropriate meal from start to finish in six languages, and charm the thongs off lady diplomats, politicians, officers and wives. I can even fake it and charm male types or ladies' husbands, if the mission calls for it. I prefer not, but a mission's a mission.

  Operatives train constantly. I can't stress that enough. There is always something else that can be used in combat, or as a cover persona, or for infiltration. New tools and techniques are developed all the time. From waking until retiring, I read updates, studied manuals, worked out, practiced operations, shot and jumped and took things apart. Sometimes, I even put things back together. I lived, breathed and dreamt warfare. You probably wouldn't want me in your parlor at a diplomatic banquet, although you'd never know which one of your guests I was, but you certainly want me on your side when SHTF—Shit Hits The Fan.

  There were several of us from about the same cycle of training posted at Team 3 (3rd MAR had one squad of Operatives and Blazer squads in Combat Air Control, Combat Pioneer, Combat Rescue and Recon attached to it). We were encouraged to be friends, as it gave us needed socialization at minimal security risk, increased esprit de corps and let our competitive natures urge each other to learn better. In short, it made us easier to control. The thought of a rogue Operative defecting to an enemy, the private sector, or even going freelance is enough to give us nightmares. Anyone this powerful has to have iron discipline and control. We're more dangerous than nukes—we can't be detected until after we go off. So we keep a good eye on each other, and why would we associate with regular people anyway? It made dating rough. I was lucky enough to have a fellow Operative, but there were few women. Mostly, we dated other soldiers at least. The relationships with civilians tended not to last long. We just weren't compatible. And let's face it: we were egotistical punks back then. We wouldn't grow up for years. But that attitude sometimes meant the difference between death and life.

  So it was that after six months (fifty-day months, remember) of tiring skill training, Frank Lutz, Tyler Jones and I were assigned to audit the Chersonesus Army Advanced Combat Assault Course and report back on what we found. Whenever possible, we swap with "similar" units from other nations. This is to trade secrets for dealing with terrorists and insurgents, practice working with unknown allies and assets, and of course to spy on their capabilities. This was at least a slight change from our training so far—we weren't being graded, we were the assessors. I had slightly more time in service than either of them even though we were all E-4 Senior Operatives, so I was in charge. There's no real significance to relative newbies like ourselves going on the mission. We do this at all ranks to get different viewpoints.

  Tyler Jones was a cute but mousy woman who kept her brown hair bobbed in what was called a dyke cut (I'm not sure why it's called that; fashion is not my strong suit), measured about 160 cm and massed about 60 kilos. At the time, she was twelve. Don't let that fool you, as she was inhumanly strong and could outwrestle me about half the time. She was also a bloodthirsty little killer who delighted in starting fights whenever someone made a derogatory comment about her, which happened not infrequently. During our advanced training, she lugged an M23 Heavy Machinegun (20.6 kilos with tripod, plus ammo) without any complaints or assistance. I hated carrying the heavy, personally. I do love the firepower, though.

  Frank was taller than me, slightly softer with curly hair and had a wicked sense of humor. His idea of entertainment was to use a pressurized can of solvent and a lighter to torch any bug that landed within range. He only caught a fellow drinker's hair on fire once. He was working on Combat Air Control and Meteorology and had a stack of rams with him.

  The three of us were cut orders to ship as supernumeraries on a UN military transport pulling routine rotations among embassies and remote sites. It was departing in two days. I screened a quick message to Deni, telling her I'd miss our planned encounter for the weekend, and grabbed gear and ran. Mercifully, we were not required to ship our full package. We'd be detached and unavailable. Still, what I had to carry was plenty.

  The shuttle that was our first leg launched less than a div later. It was a nice flight, I must admit. We were stuck on a contract flight to save time and the only three spots available were in First Class. Seen through station ports as we entered the gangtube, the craft was a brilliant red, polished and glowing in Iolight. The cabin inside was rich leather, real nuggetwood paneling, and had enough legroom even for lanky bastards like myself. As military in uniform (which is rare for Operatives, but we were dressed as Blazers and officially acting as Blazers), we were treated to complimentary booze and snacks, and the meal was lovely—shredded chicken quesadillas with sweet jalapeño peppers, tomatoes and four cheeses. I highly recommend Barchetta Shuttle Service, if you have the means to travel in such fashion. It was a personnel shuttle only, and we climbed until the nacelles could no longer duct enough air. Then the real thrust kicked in—reaction engines. Those took us to Skywheel docking altitude.

  We switched to one of their intra-system ships in the odd centripetal and real gravity of the Skywheel, whipped off at the outer arc and headed for Transfer Station in Gealach (our satellite) orbit. Yes, "Transfer Station" is its corporate name; after all, that's what they do. We had berths nicer than any in a military training craft. In less than a day, the shuttle clanked and connected, and we had to rush to transfer to the UNS Paris.

  We bumped through the passageways of Transfer, apologizing to civilians and bouncing off the mostly bare m
etal walls of the military terminal. There were a few framed prints to break the monotony, and they looked interesting at a glance, but we had no time to dawdle.

  We weren't last aboard, but did reach the lock with only fifteen "minutes" (60 Earth seconds each, roughly 60 of ours) left. We saluted the flag ("ensign") as we'd been briefed, even though it stuck in our craw to salute a foreign flag, and were ushered aboard. We had our bunkroom assignments and map already loaded into our comms, saluted the Officer of the Deck and swam aft.

  We needn't have rushed; they didn't thrust on time.

  This is one of many cycles of positive feedback in the UN Peace Forces. They don't actually punish soldiers for being AWOL. As a result, people are under no real urgency to get where they're supposed to be on time. This means the commanders call troops early and plan to commence operations late. Knowing it will commence late, the troops sleep in or goof off until the last moment they figure they can get away with, which is after the official deadline. This delays the start even further, so to compensate, the commanders give earlier deadlines. As military craft, they get priority slots in UN and colonial space, so they aren't in any real hurry to do anything about the problem.

  This is actually beneficial to the companies that run docks in the Freehold. Since neither they nor the Citizens' Council take orders from the UN, they don't have to give priority to UNPF ships. So if the ship misses its slot, they have to pay a premium to bump the schedule and be fit in. They whine about it, and accuse us of not respecting their importance, but if they can't have their troops stick to a schedule, it obviously isn't that important to them.