The keys, pocketknives, tools, shoes (and laces), belts, and stockings all wound up dropped outside a window that opened onto the roof, along with comms. I sealed it again and turned back to my prisoners. Elapsed time, 200 seconds. The only weapons left to them were their bodies, a few books, and some commo cables I'd missed earlier. I ripped those last out of the walls and coiled them up. They'd be easy to fix after the fact, and disabled his controls now. I didn't really need updates as a "terrorist," as I was just trying to cause trouble. I'd be tied up here, and we weren't going to use radios much, except to jam and spread disinformation. "I won't cut out any implanted phones if you all agree not to use them," I said, waving the knife. "Deal?" They all nodded worried assent.
"What now?" the brigadier asked.
"Now we wait. Your people are in a hurry to stop things. Mine aren't," I said.
So we sat. I wouldn't let them talk to each other, and wasn't going to let them talk to me. That made it much harder for them to get any intelligence, other than my description and weapons. It was near an hour local time, more than thirty segs, before anyone figured out that the Brigadier hadn't been heard from nor yet come down to the CP, and called up to the office on the only line I'd left. I held the headset up for him. "Brigadier McAran," he answered. I kept the speaker on and my pistol to his head as the conversation started.
"Sir! We have more attacks across the base! What do you want us to do? Er, Exercise Transmission," someone screeched.
Carefully eyeballing my pistol, he replied, "Exercise Transmission. Give me a detailed sitrep, if you please, colonel," he replied.
"Exercise Transmission. It's all on your screen, sir. I expected you'd be in the command post by now."
"Exercise Transmission. I'm afraid I can't make it at the moment," he replied. "And my comm isn't showing that data. If you could send Data Systems Squadron to look at it, AND A SECURITY TEAM NOW! ONE TERRORIST—"
I cut him off by yanking the headset and shoving his chair over backwards. He hit his head and lay stunned while I spoke into the mic. "Now listen to me, 'colonel.' Exercise Transmission. This is the Committee for Utilizing Natural Terrain for Spiritualism," I said with a straight face. "We are holding your imperialist dogs hostage."
"Er . . . very well. And who are you, sir?" he asked. I heard hubbub behind him.
"I am the Great Druid of CUNTS," I replied. There was a moment's absolute silence.
"You've got to be bloody joking," was the reply.
"Exercise Transmission," I replied, according to their rules. "If you think I'm joking, I can start by killing Major Hardy."
There was more confusion. Eventually, I heard, "That won't be necessary, sir. And what does . . . your organization . . . want us to do?"
"Our list of demands will be revealed in due time. In the meantime, if you want to see your general alive again, it will cost you," I continued.
"And what will it cost us?" he inquired.
"CUNTS needs a thick, forty-five-centimeter Italian sausage," I said.
"A WHAT?" he asked.
"Pizza, you moron! From Ansatos," I said and slapped off the phone.
Nothing would happen for several minutes, I figured. I said to McAran, "Real World, sir. Do you need help?"
"If you could sit me back up, I'd appreciate it," he said, shaking off the dizzies. "You play rough, sir, er, Sergeant?"
"Not as rough as a real terrorist," I reminded him with a waggle of the pistol. I didn't answer his question.
"True."
There were chuckles at the exchange over the phone. "Was that improv, sergeant?" Major Hardy asked. She looked faintly embarrassed, probably at being amused in so crude a fashion. I actually looked her over now. About 25 by our reckoning, late 30s Earth years, neck length blonde hair. Her build was decent, and her eyes were brown but bright. No wedding ring. She must have been preparing for a date, as she was moderately made up. So her evening was shot to hell.
"I have a list of groups to use," I admitted. "It's always a better exercise with mischievous fun and misdirection mixed in."
"'Better' for whom?" Popejoy asked.
"For me, of course," I said.
The phone rang again. "Yes?" I said as I answered it. The Brigadier wouldn't be speaking again.
"We'll order that pizza shortly. In the meantime, it would show good faith if you could release one of the hostages," he said. Step 1: try to negotiate.
"And why would I do a stupid thing like that?" I asked.
"Please, sir. People are scared—"
"They should be scared. CUNTS are not being allowed to act as nature demands," I said.
He strangled on that, then continued, "But if we are to give you something, we need something in return. Perhaps if Major Hardy could be released . . . ?"
"Why Major Hardy? She's a public affairs officer. I wouldn't want a professional speaker on camera saying bad things about CUNTS. I'm not even sure she knows anything about CUNTS." The look on Hardy's face indicated she was about to wet herself laughing.
"Sir, please . . . she's the only woman . . ."
"Ah, so that's it," I replied. "And what if I want to keep her here? Why is she more valuable to you as a woman? I thought she was just another officer. Yes, I think I will keep her here," I said as I scrawled a message on a notepad from the brigadier's desk. It read, "You are being abused, scream in pain, please." I showed it to her.
All of my "prisoners" were starting to get into the act. I held up the mic and she screamed to shatter wineglasses, with plenty of white noise that had to hurt her vocal cords. It was brilliant.
Into the ringing silence, I said, "This has been an Exercise Transmission," and disconnected.
They called right back. "Yes?" I said.
"Please, sir, we believe you. We'll have that pizza there in an hour," he said.
"Delivery time is twenty minutes. Send the driver right up with no delay," I demanded. "And that attempt to stall is going to cost you. The price for the Brigadier just went up. Make that two pizzas. And drinks. No diet drinks with that fake levosugar or I kill someone."
They conferred. "Very well, sir," they said. I disconnected.
We stared at each other. I went back to being a silent hardass. The CP called back twenty-five minutes later. "Yes?" I answered.
"The driver is on his way now," I was told.
"Good. He comes in alone, he goes out alone. Anyone tries anything funny, and I kill him along with the hostages here, as well as any of your goons who are in range of the bomb or the nerve agent," I said.
I heard outraged yells behind the speaker. I hadn't mentioned any bomb, so they hadn't thought to plan for it. They didn't need to—I didn't have one. But they should have considered it.
I heard rapid, frantic yells as they aborted whatever entry team had been preparing to come in shooting. They had less than five minutes, had told me the driver was coming, and couldn't stall now without making it obvious they were trying something.
I laughed at them and disconnected.
A knock on the door was followed by a loud voice saying, "Ansatos. I have a large, thick, hot, spicy sausage."
"Come on in, Frank," I said.
There were groans from my captives. They were utterly dumbfounded at there being another one of us. The groans changed to smiles when we unshackled them and dished up pizza all around, with drinks. There were coffee and donuts for later. I made them feed the security detail though; I wasn't about to unshackle those gung ho clowns.
We made it clear that trying anything funny would get them shot and shackled and starved for the duration. Then Frank and I emptied out his pizza bag of tools and went to work on the Brigadier's safe, bypassing the primary lock and forcing his eyeballs up to the scanner, after reminding him that a real terrorist could gouge them out and use them before they cooled. He gave us no trouble.
We got a good photo of me sitting arm in arm with the Brigadier, big grins on our faces, although his was a bit forced, the safe open behind us, and the cover of a
"MOST SECRET" document visible. They'd get that with my face blacked out. I'd keep a copy for bragging afterwards, then destroy it. Frank and I swapped updates, he left with the tools, the photos and McAran's hat as a souvenir, and the rest of us went back to waiting.
The next call had a different voice. "This is Major Malloy of the Security Squadron," he said. "I need to find out what your other demands are."
I knew he was planning something. "Where's that nice colonel I was talking to, Major? I'd much prefer to deal with him."
He paused before replying, "Colonel Cartwright is . . . indisposed. I'm afraid I'm in charge here now."
"Indisposed?" I replied. "Dear me, I hope he didn't ingest any psychoactives with the sandwich that was delivered one hour and twenty-three minutes ago."
Malloy squawked, swore, and disconnected.
I laughed at them again.
I spoke to the deputy center commander, who'd been reticent and calm for most of this. "Colonel Setzer, please consider yourself dead," I said. "Would you like the formality of me shooting you, or will you handle the simulation without it?"
"I think I can manage," he half smiled as he shrank back. He'd been observant, and was obviously still making notes. Clever man.
"Good."
We'd been at this four hours total when the newest corpse spoke. "Is there any way to get a latrine break?" he asked.
"Only if you can use the Brigadier's coffee pot," I replied.
I could see that the idea didn't appeal.
"Well, I will, then," I said. They stared at me dumbfounded as I put the pot on the ground behind the desk, sat on the spare chair, unhooked my pants, and began splashing into it. Their faces drained of color. It was the Brigadier's coffee pot. That was a sacred item on any base.
McAran said, "If I go next, Colonel, will that make it easier for you?"
The colonel looked ready to melt in embarassment. He was the only one who decided to hold it. Hardy excused herself to the corner, and I even decently turned away. She couldn't move from a squat without me reacting, anyway.
Of course, they did get me eventually. I was only one person, after all. My pocket beeped, and Tyler's voice said, "Watch it, Ken." We'd been saving the radios for necessity—the sooner we used them, the sooner they'd be jammed or used to track us.
I knew they were planning on coming in, and had to time my actions just right. I clicked back to acknowledge. "Brigadier, please come over to the couch," I said as I untied his hands from the chair again.
When the first faint rustles sounded through the windows, I sauntered over to the corner behind the Brigadier's desk. The others didn't notice it at first, but long silence had let them grow accustomed to the background noise so they noticed the difference. They tensed.
I Boosted. Everything quivered and focused, and I prepared to go balls out. The crash of the window breaking was my cue, and I ducked my head and clapped my ears. The actinic glare of a stun grenade punched me in the eyes, right through my lids and averted face, while the bang shook my brains in my head. My hair crackled from the static charge, but most of the neural effect was grounded by the desk. I had a couple of fingers tingling and a cold spot on my right heel.
But then I was up. A leap and a roll took me through the group of hostages, and I came up with an arm around Hardy. Always pick a female hostage—males are more reluctant to shoot in their direction.
I got three of the black-clad figures as they came through the window, then shot Popejoy, who was trying to help by jumping me. The newcomers spread out to get better angles at me, and I fired with impunity, while they held theirs. Then one of them made as to take a shot. I twisted and he got Hardy in the chest, just below my arm. She squealed and coughed and tried to swear. I dropped the "corpse," "killed" McAran and rolled away to come up in close quarters.
They hadn't expected that. With the pistol doing triple duty as a club and block, I charged them. I got one in the crotch hard enough to crack his cup, punched a female in both breasts hard enough to knock the wind out of her despite her body armor, fired off the rest of the magazine into two others, and yanked one down by the facemask until my knee smashed into his visor. He staggered back.
Then a blizzard of shots pummeled me cold. I went down still fighting.
I woke to a medic hovering over me. He was disheveled, and his helmet was next to me. "Are you okay, sir?" he asked.
I did a quick self-exam. "Other than bruises and rug burn, I'm fine," I assured him. The back of my scalp and between my shoulders would need nanos and local anesthetic; it was a mass of bruises.
"You are a crazy fucking bastard, sir," he said, shaking his head.
I was too light-headed to stand yet, so I stalled for time. "And how many of you are dead?" I asked.
"All seven hostages and five of twelve Entry Team members," he admitted. "And three others injured, for exercise purposes. One of those will need to be hospitalized real world for a bruised testicle."
"I must be slowing down in my old age," I replied.
"Cocky bastard, aren't you? Sir," he added.
"I think I've earned that right," I said. Damn, I hurt. I wasn't going to admit it, and I'd walk out unassisted in a few moments, but I hurt.
* * *
The debriefing was two days later, in the base theater. We showed them exactly what we'd done, none of which was particularly high-tech or difficult, and gave them a list of potential improvements. They were all sober, especially when the body count and property damage was assessed. We'd "killed" three hundred and forty-seven personnel, forty-six family members, "crashed" two incoming transports with another thousand plus people aboard, "destroyed" two shuttles, seven close support craft, tens of ground vehicles, hundreds of millions of pounds worth of equipment, and scrambled most of the comms and signal gear. (That was Tyler's doing, from the tower. Everything appeared to be working at first, so they'd never called up to find that the staff were trussed and gagged.) In all, we shut down the base for an entire day real world, for weeks as far as the exercise went.
There were five of us.
They didn't believe us.
Now, I've seen this before and since. The complaints are always that we "obviously are lying" about how few people there were, that we "broke the rules" of the exercise, that "the evaluators tell the aggressors exactly where everyone is to make it easy for them." Rabbits will come up with any excuse in the book rather than accept the three basic facts of the exercise, which are that 1) They're morons. B} They're ignorant, and iii: They're pathetically undertrained.
Don't get me wrong—there are always exceptional performers. But as a whole, most units stink. That's why they have huge casualties going in to an engagement—it takes time to shake down and learn to work as a good team. The whole point of such exercises is not to make the base look stupid, but to give them practice at dealing with events outside the expected norm. But they always take it as a personal affront, then try to deny the reality, and I don't know if they ever actually accept the lesson. But we'll keep trying. Even if they don't learn from such exercises, we do. We did. Look at us now.
The next stack of complaints was about our "recklessness." We should have warned them of the powerplant going down, in case they had problems with the backup generators at the hospital (which would have required generator testing that should have been done ahead of time and should always be current, and would have destroyed the whole element of surprise). We shouldn't have used hallucinogens because of the "danger" (Sparkle is sold commercially to any adult in the Freehold who wants to have an enhanced time. It is non-addictive, habit forming with repeated use only to those with weak and depressed personalities). We should have warned our targets that they'd need goggles against possible misaimed shots with my H&K. We shouldn't have gotten base housing involved because of the danger, or the flightline, or this, or that. Everyone seemed to think that they were exempt from attack due to their importance. We patiently tried to explain that that very importance made them targets
. We were only partly successful. One lieutenant wanted us to "simulate" most of it, claiming that they would "act accordingly."
I told that officer that a placard on a soft drink machine marked, "Simulated unplugged," (as they'd done during the day Friday) was inadequate, and his people just weren't that good of actors. They were hitting the machine for drinks anyway. The whole point of such an exercise is to suffer the privations as one would in a real event.
* * *
The final review was in McAran's office. His unit commanders and the five of us met to do a detailed breakdown of what we'd seen. I won't bore you with it, but the beginning had a humorous note.
We were all greeted and seated. I asked my "victims" how they were doing, met Colonel Cartwright, who was very unhappy at being drugged with Sparkle, and made sure Major Hardy was okay after her experience of being nearly choked then shot in the chest. She seemed delighted by the whole affair, and urged the Brigadier to do more such training. Her only complaint seemed to be that she hadn't had a camera with her to record the whole event. I politely explained that any camera pointed in the direction of a "Blazer" would be vaporized, and the holder thereof also if we were rushed.
They served coffee, and started with me, as I was front row and right side. I don't like coffee, but we try to always be polite. I took a sip from the cup, decided it wasn't too hot, then took a gulp. McAran addressed me, "Corporal Chinran, how did you know I had the coffeepot cleaned since our little encounter the other day?" He had a nasty grin on his face.
I kept a bored look on my face and replied, "I didn't."
The looks on the faces of seven people in that room were priceless.
At the end, we shook hands all around and made nice. Major Hardy gave me a smile with a glint behind it. I don't know. I didn't have time to follow up then, and was nervous about the prospect of offending a foreign officer, and I still wonder. Was it just amusement and mannerism? Or was she hinting at a game of good kidnapper/bad kidnapper to be played out in a hotel suite?
Probably not. But it's a nice thought. And I need nice thoughts now.
* * *
The Weapon Page 11