The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "UP!" I shouted. I rounded up my squad by comm and eye, waved at all the nearby Mobsters, and indicated a building. I clicked a channel for the area, and ordered, "Inside, left, and up to the roof!" We dismounted in a hurry, flipping the encoding switches on the vehicles so no one could drive off without the hassle of bypassing the codes, which would take long enough for us to shoot them. I saw Deni pile out of the second GUV, tripping momentarily as she tangled in her carbine, which she was slinging, and her sniper's rifle, which she was porting for carry. Good girl. Joel was a step behind with ammo, scope and the smaller, close range marksman's rifle.

  As our backup began moving in the indicated direction, I chivvied them along while shouting orders to my people. "No, LEFT!" I heard Tyler bellow. Someone had panicked and headed the wrong way. The right stairwell would be lethal, if the building were occupied.

  Why, you ask? Because right handed shooters—the majority—need to advance stairs counterclockwise so as to have weapons pointed in the correct direction. It's even worse with projectile arms than it was in old castles where the sword arm needed to be free, which meant clockwise to avoid exposure. I'm told this is why old Earth castle stairs are all counterclockwise—the right-handed attacker must fight while exposed.

  We got them through the narrow, dim corridors to the correct stairs and began advancing in pairs, with Frank and Neil in the lead. Tyler jammed the heavy up the middle and triggered an eardrum shattering burst to keep any bright boys clear. She hit something, as gouts of blood poured down amid the dust and rubble, very macabre. A squad weapon would have done just fine. The heavy was awe-inspiring. I had no idea how she handled it like that, as massive as it was and as small as she was. Kirby had the cats snarling their harsh killer cries. It served to scare the inhabitants further and urge our colleagues to move even faster.

  As my kids advanced, they'd typically hit a foot and cripple the enemy, who'd applaud their marksmanship with a scream. One genius tried to poke his weapon through the railing and shoot down. Geoff shot him through the eye. At point blank range, the red mist was impressive. It also stank and I could taste the salty iron tang of it in my throat as we advanced.

  I called HQ. Click— "Prime—Three Zulu One, moving to rooftops, suggest likewise. Have Seven Alfa Three with me. Request support soonest. Can hold for indeterminate time, but status may change."

  There was little action currently, except for shooting the occasional wiggling wounded who'd not been sent to meet God yet, and since I believe in respecting local religions, we sped them along their journey. Most of the residents were wisely staying hidden. Anyway, it was a commercial building, not an apartment. Or it had been once. It seemed to be a refuge now.

  The exec spoke in my ears. "Three Zulu One—Mob Two, movement endorsed, support as it happens, good hunting." That wasn't good. "As it happens" was a code phrase meaning roughly, "We are screwwwed and you're on your own for the foreseeable future." At least I knew it was an open party.

  There was a clump of people at the top of the stairs. I shoved through and organized the squad, shouting back for the Mobsters to keep an eye out for laggards (ours) and targets (theirs). The roof hatch was locked, but a few rounds took care of that. We erupted in best assault formation, to a thankfully vacant roof. We dispersed and prepared positions.

  Kirby and the animals stayed in the stairwell with five Mobsters. I wanted our rear covered for retreat, and there wasn't much the animals could do up here anyway. The rest of us prepared to render unto Caesar the things that were Caesar's, and to God the things that were God's, namely: the souls of his frothing followers.

  Deni and Joel took a position in a drainage channel, soaking themselves through but getting a fine position to snipe from, with a generous opening to shoot through and thick concrete around and in front. Tyler set up near one corner and shouted for people to bring her materials for cover. She punctuated it with a burst at the advancing horde. Yes, "horde." From the north, it appeared. Not a wave, but tens of dodging figures who were obviously experienced at urban combat, and had artillery support at least. "I hate having lots of enemies. I never know which one to kill first." That was our joking motto. Very funny. Who had screwed up enough to let this happen?

  It suddenly came to me that this hadn't been the brightest of redoubts. It was too fucking visible. On the other hand, staying on the ground meant lousy visibility and no position. On the other hand, underground was too much like going into a grave. On the other hand . . .

  I noticed far too many people for my count. There were other Mobsters swarming up through the hatch while their buddies provided generous cover. That was good. But we were all massed. That was bad. I ordered, "Control—Three Zulu One. Link Seven Alfa Three to my comm. Break. Broadcast, elements within two hundred meters lateral. This is Three Zulu One, new arrivals pick another building so we have crossfire! And get your heavy and your support weapons on the corners. Your marksmen will do best on the south." I took a few seconds to look around and decide where to place people. We needed most on this side to stem the horde, but a few on other corners would help. The problem was, the other corners had no cover until we blasted a rooftop service building and dragged stuff from the floor below to build with. That meant splitting people up while we took fire.

  It didn't work out too badly. Deni, meaning Joel doing the seeing while she did the shooting, had a clear view of the street and took out a mucky-muck in an armored car right through the plating. Some amateur thought of using an aircar as a shooting platform, and Donnie and Ross painted him across the adjoining building with a missile to gently let him know that that trick was old and stale. It got down to the business of our shooters versus theirs. Theirs had more combat time. Ours were just as willing to shoot, knowing survival depended on it, and were better shots.

  A third building was reinforced from a VC-6 Bison that had been returning from some patrol or other, and we secured the area around us. I saw a cluster of enemies (translation: no one I knew) gathering in front of our second building, using vehicles as cover, and dialed up the rez to be sure they were enemies. They were. I leaned over and burped off four grenades and in moments they were cooked sausage. One of our compatriots returned the favor on their buddies in front of our building, and we waved acknowledgment at each other. A warning flashed in my visor, and I ducked, hoping everyone else's was working properly. Damned things will always fail when you need them most.

  A farting roar shook the sky and made me cringe reflexively, then I grinned. The warning had heralded the sound of high-speed rotary cannon in large caliber, which meant our Hatchets had arrived, and nothing the enemy had could compete with that. This game was over, and thank you very much for playing, assholes. Welcome to modern warfare.

  They knew that game, too, it seemed. A Hatchet was nailed with a vehicle-launched AA missile. It dropped out of view, but as I sneaked a peak I saw the pilot make a forced landing and take out the ADA vehicle. He landed on the ADA vehicle, while shooting a last burst into an oncoming APC. He hopped clear and was just into a building when the auto-destruct package took out all the enemy within the intersection. Still, they had an armored car, an APC, an AA equipped vehicle and three others I'd seen so far. This was not getting better.

  We stayed there all night. The enemy were bringing up better weapons, and we were calling in ours. They took a few rooftops, and we had a tense time of sniper versus sniper. I was worried about Deni especially, and Tyler with her heavy, as they were prime targets. Deni was a demon, though. While hunkering down, I watched her. She breathed, went slack and squeezed. Utterly calm. Nothing could bother her when she was in shooting trance. The enemy were simply targets to her. Joel whispered targets to her, she shot them. She got one marksman right through his reticle. Of course, her rounds were somewhat more vigorous than his, and the hydrostatic shock turned him to goo from eyeball back to lower ribs. That was a psy war bombshell to his buddies, whose fire was a mere formality for several segs following, until someone convinc
ed them to resume shooting. Tyler relocated to that side and hosed the top thoroughly, Neil and Barto and three Mobsters I didn't know and I lobbed a few dozen grenades over, set for two meter proximity burst, and Donnie slammed a missile into the top of their elevator shaft. The shrapnel from that was impressive.

  For some reason, that rooftop was silent the rest of the night. Possibly because there wasn't one.

  But we couldn't evacuate the wounded. I could hear one guy, lungshot, hacking deep, gooey wet coughs and shrieking in pain. The medics were near the middle, had laid their packs open so we could all grab bandages and painkillers and stims, and were frantically operating on the three serious casualties to keep them alive until we could get pulled out. I would have been terrified if I wasn't using every drop of adrenaline to keep me alert and moving.

  My ears picked up something just as my visor flashed red, and I threw myself flat as an explosion blew the parapet next to me to dust. I was stung with tiny particles and slapped with the blast. It snatched at my breath. I'd wanted action, right? I was maturing at a hell of a rate through this.

  Sensing a lull, I ran back to the rear of the elevator hatch. I'd designated that the latrine, and I had what felt like a turtle poking his head out of my ass. There was a young mobster squatting there, and she stiffened as I approached, almost as if she was about to pop to attention. "Relax, trooper," I said as I unbuckled and leaned against the wall. The drain trough around it was a perfect temporary sewer.

  "Y-y-yes, sir," she acknowledged, and I saw she was shaking. Tears were streaming down her face. "Th-this is my first battle," she explained. "I'm s-sorry."

  "Hell, it's a first for all of us," I said as I looked over. She might be twelve. Fourteen if she was young-looking. About the same age I was when I enlisted. "Fear isn't a problem. Crying isn't even a problem. Just do what you have to and keep yourself and your buddies alive," I counseled.

  "Yes, sir," she nodded vigorously. Looking at my collar pips, she asked, "You're the Black Ops officer?"

  "Warrant Leader, Black Ops Team Three," I agreed.

  "So you're not scared," she said in presumption.

  "Scared? I'm fucking terrified," I told her. That bothered her. "But it's all reflex. Remember your training, stick with your buddies, do as I tell you and you'll be as safe as you can be. I'm not itching to win any medals, sacrifice any troops, or do anything except keep us alive and kill as many religious freaks as I can in the process. I won't make you a hero, but I will get you home."

  She grinned at that, tears running sideways on creases she shouldn't yet have at her age. "Thanks, Warrant," she said as she hoisted her pants and buckled them.

  Morale boosted. Back to the war. Any of you prudes now understand the advantage of coed facilities? Battle, sex, and biological functions are intensely personal and strip away inhibitions. The best bonding takes place then. Besides, there's no time to have separate facilities in the midst of battle.

  As I headed back to my south edge position, I passed the little tool hutch that was being used as our aid station. We had two serious wounded by then, one the lungshot guy and one with a leg pretty well shattered, but doped up on painkillers and shock stabilizers until she felt nothing. We had one dead.

  The medics had tossed a shirt over his head to indicate his status (that's why they do that, not any ritual reason). There was also a Security Patrol armband draped across his chest. It had our flag, "MP" for "military police" (the standard designation for everyone to recognize) and a triple chevron to indicate a patrol leader. I looked quizzically at it. Where had an SP come from?

  One of the medics turned and said, "That's mine, sir. My first skill was medic, but I'm now an SP. I was in the area, got separated, so I volunteered."

  "Thanks, Trooper," I replied. "Why the brassard on his chest?" I asked as I nodded my head that way.

  "Well, he's dead in battle," the sergeant explained. "Casualties in line of duty are supposed to be draped in the flag. We don't have any flags. But there's the embroidered one on my brassard. It's only a few centimeters, but . . ."

  "It is a flag," I completed.

  "Yes, sir," he agreed.

  "That'll work," I acknowledged. I turned and ran.

  The brief break had helped me relax and feel better. However, the battle had changed and it took me a few seconds to get back into the groove. I sought Deni. "How are you doing?" I asked between thunderous roars of her rifle. Yes, it was suppressed. It was just that powerful. An M-66 15 mm Precision Target Rifle has to be felt to be believed.

  "Oh, fine," she said, with the barest of vacant smiles, that faded back to her slight pout that was designed to equalize pressure in her head and presaged another cacophonous BOOM! "I have sixteen rounds left. After that, I'll need some of Tyler's."

  Wow. She'd been busy. Her basic load was sixty rounds. Forty-four fired meant forty-four freaks on their way to Paradise, in pieces.

  Of course, I'd been asking how she was doing, not how her shooting went. That's just the type of woman she was. All business when it counted.

  I heard Joel say, "Third building, top floor, fourth window low." They created code as they went, as any practiced team does. I scanned across and had just figured out where he was referring when Deni said, "Sight," squeezed and BOOM! Another wannabe was translated straight to heaven. Well and good. I moved on.

  Frank had had Tyler move to another position. She was drawing too much attention. There'd been a minor mixup inside as someone tried to envelop us, but there'd only been five of them and the two leopards had enveloped them and torn them to bloody shreds. They were due steak and ice cream when we got back. They love steak and ice cream.

  About 4 am local, we seemed to get control. The incoming artillery slowed. Our Hatchets had control of the air and didn't let go. The idiots opposing them, in badly reinforced air cars mounting missile tubes, were turned into blood-drenched polymer confetti. Some called it brave. I called it stupidity born of fanaticism.

  As dawn became obvious, the fire quickly faded to nothing and stopped. We could see people moving about here and there, but none of them were armed. Typical of the type of warfare, I'd been taught. But at least my squad were okay. So was I. I had another thirty-one with me, of whom one was dead, two were critically wounded, four were minorly wounded, and all were tired, dazed and ravenous.

  We were pulled off by VC-26 Hummingbird and taken back to the 'port. While the kids plowed into food, I headed for debriefing. None of us would be sleeping, though my troops might snatch a nap. The battle had shifted but was not over, and we were needed elsewhere. I hosed off and squeezed drugs both chemical and nano into my bloodstream to flush fatigue poisons and elevate my metabolism.

  The base looked like a demolition zone. I'd heard we'd been hit, but hadn't known it was that hard. Buildings were crumbled, roofs collapsed, craters from mortar shells pocked the open areas. It was rather impressive. I grabbed what info I could and asked a couple of people.

  Apparently, the battle was much more than the attack in the city. The factions were hitting us, the UN, several local installations, and even screwing with a few things in orbit. It was a serious push to get us off the planet.

  They'd picked our sector of the base because of bad intelligence. They assumed that because of our low numbers and high mobility, that the Headquarters Battalion would be easy pickings. After all, they were rear echelon pukes, right? Recspecs, chaplains, key pushers and maintenance pukes. I got a warm fuzzy feeling at that thought, and I couldn't stop from grinning.

  With anyone else's military, that would have been true. But we train everyone as infantry first, and all leadership schools, promotions and command slots depend at least fifty percent on one's ability in the basics, for exactly this reason. And we're all armed, all the time. On the occasions I chose to get my rocks off at the rec center, both I and the recspec had our armor and weapons in the corner. Pursuant to the Conventions, there are no weapons in medical facilities, but they are right outside. We don
't have noncombatant medics, lawyers or chaplains; they carry rifles, too. Two hundred and twenty HQ personnel equals two hundred and twenty combat effective infantry. We also tried to rotate them through on basic patrols, so more than a few of them had at least a day or two of trigger time, and it's the first day that is the roughest.

  So these poor, misguided, illiterate, prayer-chanting cavemen (Yes, I despised them. I said so already) stormed the fence with cutters, whilst their buddies lobbed shells. The idea was to pin our people down, march in, and have a mass orgy of looting and raping for the Mercy and Peace of God. Especially the raping. We used unmarried women (and men, but they didn't care about them) for sexual relief, and women as troops. That was sinful. Raping them to prove this was apparently acceptable to God, and would convince us to pull out.

  Instead, the local yokels had run smack into all the traps our engineers had set around the perimeter. Since those traps were both against a real world threat and done for training everyone while we had a real world situation, there was an ungodly amount of wire, explosive, emplaced automatic systems, and pitfalls. As soon as word got out, our repressed support troops, eager to bag a body for record, enthusiastically took cover and gleefully returned a heavy volume of fire. Our replacement and training depot shills had swarmed to unpack their factory new guns and trucks, and dialed in a quite impressive counterbattery and support convoy, seeing as the guns had only been boresighted.

  It had been a merry slaughter, but not the way the factions had intended.

  We had a total of twelve dead, which was bothersomely high, but certainly on the low side considering the engagement. I counted fifty bearded freaks tangled in the wire, saw bits of ten others, and enough blast zones to account for another twenty. And that was only within sight of the gate. Most of our casualties were due to people being too enthusiastic in response and leaving themselves exposed.

  That wasn't the end of the battle, however. Our sector had slacked off, probably due to the vicious response we put up. The northern sector of the capital was still a brutal, up close and personal tangle. Naumann did a datadump to my comm, I pulled it up on screen, and swore. Someone in Uno Intelligence had fucked the dog on this one, because as much hardware as I saw displayed didn't exist on the planet, according to them. It sure as hell existed in the real world, however.