The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "Well, yes," I agreed. Yes, this was going to be a sucky recon in Developing Nation hellholes.

  He handed me a case full of rams. Not one, but a case. "Figure out what it would take to train an Ops team to handle it. Here's ideas on what techniques the operation might use to achieve sufficient disruption. I wouldn't expect we have more than a year to prepare. The budget isn't much yet, but I'll try to wangle more."

  "This is official?" I asked. I knew the answer, but I wanted confirmation. In the case were captain's insignia. That was fast.

  "This is through me," he said. "I've told Dyson. No one else knows. No one else needs to know. Don't ask about the budget."

  Something about that bothered me, and I said, "You do realize that the Constitution requires fifty percent of military forces by type and equipment to be Reserve, and you are forming an unauthorized Freehold unit?" It was a rhetorical question. Of course he knew.

  "Actually, you're forming it," he said. "We'd both be taken down on this one." He didn't grin.

  I said, "Yes, Sir, Is There Anything Else, Sir?" and got out of there with minimal small talk.

  I had been wrong. The rat bastard was planning to send me to live on Earth until we had such a war, and fight it from behind, with no support and in violation of every law and treaty. I'd wanted a challenge, I had one. Be careful what you wish for.

  I hoped he'd included lubricant in the plans. I hate getting dryfucked.

  Chapter 17

  You might think I picked the best, brightest, most physically perfect specimens to form the team. It's logical and reasonable. And wrong. I wanted punks. Thugs. Non-regulation, obnoxious assholes. The kind of person who would cheerfully face off the entire military bureaucracy, and dare them to put him or her in front of a firing squad. Anyone can be trained to be physically well above average, if they have the will. It requires guts and intelligence and a certain amount of sheer stupidity to deliberately buck the system and get noticed. I'd have to weed through them, certainly, but attitude was first. With that in mind, I didn't even bother looking at Soldier Performance Evaluations. The system changes every few years, but basically, within three cycles, the new system winds up being a mutual admiration society. Whether it's numbered 1–5, 1–10 or lettered, it becomes politically impossible to rate a troop honestly. Everyone must be considered "The exception. Consistently sets the standards for others." It's silly. At least we require a promotion board as well. The UNPF bases it strictly off the reports, so no one is ever deemed inadequate for the task.

  I didn't limit myself to Black Ops, Blazers, Special Projects, or even Mobile Assault. I looked through everybody's file, from the Marshal down to the newest recruit awaiting training. Then I had to look through reserve files, too. That would be a bitch. Reserve forces are under control of District Councils, not the Freehold Council. It keeps our government honest. Half the military doesn't answer to the Citizens' Council. There'd have to be some personnel swaps if I could find any reservists willing to go.

  After I'd gone through for attitude and brains, I looked at disciplinary records, then at physical scores. In truth, I'd take as many as I could get. In practice, I had limited funds and time. The better-trained and skilled they were to start with, the easier it would be. I whittled it down to 300, and decided I could do interviews from there. And I'd have to hurry on some of them.

  I hopped out to Maygida Base, and found Engineer Kimbo Randall as he was on his way out the gate. Test scores off the chart; excellent PT scores (by normal criteria); master rating in small arms; expert in unarmed combat; recreational parachutist, spaceboater and climber; first class troop in his specialty, which was utilities for an engineering unit, and they were getting rid of him because they didn't like his arrogant attitude. He was only thirteen. You have to give youth the chance to develop before you crush them. I'd give him that chance.

  He was a cocky bastard. I caught up with him as he was outprocessing at base personnel. He was walking back to his car and as he grabbed more adminwork and headed back inside, some By-The-Book asshole senior sergeant started in on him.

  "Excuse me, you need to move that car. There's a half div parking limit for guests only," he said.

  "I've only been here three segs," Randall replied.

  "No you haven't," Sergeant BTB replied. "It was here at three divs this morning, and it's still here." This guy was getting soft and out of shape, and apparently had nothing better to do than harass over technicalities people who clearly were working.

  "I left and came back," Randall snapped and kept walking.

  "No you didn't."

  He whirled at that. "Are you calling me a liar, dogfucker?" He jumped into the NCOs face and looked ready to go to town.

  Oh, I loved this kid.

  Sergeant Flabby started to bluster. "Who are you and what unit are you with, soldier?"

  "I'm Kimbo Randall, and as of the moment I sign this," he said as he shook the adminwork in Softy's face, "I'm a civilian, so fuck you, suck me and get the hell out of my face!" he shouted back. Passionate, but untrained. I would train him. He would be molded as I saw fit and the killer within would surface. Time to step in.

  "I'll handle this, Sergeant," I said as I approached. He saluted, nodded and made to hang around and watch. I stared at him until he decided to split. "Engineer Randall," I said.

  "That's Mr. Randall, to you, Captain," he replied, sounding bitter.

  "It's Engineer Sergeant Randall, if you want to stay in," I corrected.

  "Huh?" he said. I'd confused his worldview.

  "If you want to stay in, I can arrange it. Interested?" I said casually.

  Had he been sophisticated, he would have held out to see what I was offering and see if the deal would sweeten any. It wouldn't, but it never hurts to check.

  Instead, he looked ready to blow me. Patriotic and dedicated, too stubborn and stupid to know when to quit, passionately defensive of his honor and ability and proud of his service.

  Only an idiot would get rid of this kid. I needed more people to fill in as Special Projects techs, and he seemed to fit the bill. I wasn't disappointed.

  There were names I recognized on the list of course—most of the qualifying personnel were Operatives or Blazers. Some of those still surprised me, though. For example, Sergeant Irina Aleksandrovna Belinitsky, my old Bitch of an instructor. She was only two years my senior and had transferred to reserve after her second tour. The question was, could I get her back?

  She'd be great, too. She spoke Russian of course. Also Spanish, German, Hebrew and Greek. Her accents were excellent. She had experience at five different embassies and had done several covert intel missions. She could act as an instructor. Her primary training had been as an interpreter and general spook. She'd be reliable and flexible and would make a great squad or platoon leader, if I could get her.

  So I called her. She answered the phone with, "Hello?" She stared, and appeared to recognize me after a few seconds, probably from a file photo—instructors like to keep track of former students, at least in Special Warfare. She added, "Hey, ya little prick! They made you a captain? They must be desperate. What's up?"

  I grinned back. "I need an obnoxious bitch. I thought of you. And I want to screw you."

  She snorted. "All men want to screw me. What are you offering?"

  "You back on active duty, covert mission," I said, trying to be evasive but informative. I'd not practiced.

  "And when do you screw me?" she mocked.

  "When you die." It was just too good a straight line to pass up; I love double entendres.

  She laughed loudly. "Tell me more."

  "Fly out here," I said.

  "Buy me a ticket."

  I rounded up the usual suspects—Deni, Frank, Barto and Tyler. I'd worked with them. I knew their capabilities. I ran them through my program as a doublecheck, but it was a formality. They came through clear and they'd want the challenge.

  Flights were booked, lodging arranged, a few cover stories
and falsified orders issued. A lot of people were arriving in a short period of time, and it was bound to create rumors. So I assisted. We were forming a new team for counterterror only. We were creating a new, tougher training program and these were the brains behind it. We were planning another mission to Mtali. We'd made First Contact with aliens and were sending a force to accompany the diplomats. We planned to boost our military budget by sending out teams to train mercenaries and local troops elsewhere. Each story was either very believable and wrong, or so totally outrageous as to be laughed at. Meanwhile, the people I'd called arrived, were bedded down, and added to the rumors from their ignorance, which was taken as deliberate evasion by the yackers.

  * * *

  I called everyone to an empty briefing room. It was used for pilot briefings, and the Air Ops Building staff looked a bit bemused. A couple of them tried to hang around to hear, but this was none of their business, and we ushered them unceremoniously out. The doors were barred, the security field activated, and we got to business.

  I climbed the two steps to the podium and stood relaxed. "I am Operative Captain Kenneth Chinran," I announced without using a mic. Raw voice can be so much more attention getting. "Some of you know me. Some of you know each other from Blazer or Black Ops. The rest of you are new to Spec Warfare.

  "I don't care where you came from. As of today, you're Operatives. We're in a hurry, and we'll bring everyone up to speed asap. There'll be refresher courses, and a lot of training. In fact, you ain't never seen training the likes of what you are going to see here.

  "Now, I don't care where you came from. I'll be making assignments as I see fit. If I put a Legion sergeant over a Blazer corporal, I'd better not hear a word about how the sergeant isn't 'qualified' to give orders. Because I am going to make the sergeant qualified. Everyone understand that? Say, 'Yes, sir.'"

  "Yes, sir!" was the ragged response.

  "IS THAT CLEAR?"

  "YES, SIR!" the responding roar shook the podium.

  "Your relationships are your own, if you have friends here, but if you think it'll get in the way of duty, I recommend parting as friends now. And any relationships only exist in the rare off-duty moments you'll have. Both of them, to be precise. Because we are going to be training.

  "As to our mission," I said. "We'll be going clandestine as no one has ever gone before. No uniforms, nothing identifiable, strictly cash and not much of it, few if any weapons. No one is even going to suspect who we are. We will be the sweetest, most loveable bunch of dedicated young professionals and laborers anyone has ever seen . . . right up to the point where we fuck them in the ass with a sandpaper and barbed wire dildo lubed with hot sauce and hydrochloric acid." I waited for the shrieks and laughs to die down.

  "I can't say more than that until much later. Don't plan on having any outside contact about this for the next two years. If you have family, any move to the area is at your expense. We just can't admit that anything is going on. And you'll have only a few days notice to tell them you'll be going, when we do. And they still won't know where. It sucks, I know," I said over protests, "but we have to be utterly covert on this.

  "I can't tell you what our objective is, except that it's essential, challenging, and nothing you can ever talk about afterwards. You're going to be tired, hurt, dirty, ignored, unappreciated and generally taken for granted—"

  "How's that different from life now?" someone shouted. I could have kissed him. The laughs made it clear no one thought of those as problems.

  "Just don't expect things to change," I said. "I wish I could fill you all in. Just take it that this is the ultimate challenge, and after it is over, you'll have all the war stories you'll ever need and a few credits for beer." There were more chuckles.

  "I'll be in my office all afternoon. Each of you will stop by and tell me 'yes' or 'no.' If 'no,' we'll slide you out again immediately. If 'yes,' we start training tomorrow, early. That's all."

  Deni was not the first one in. I think she wanted to be, but was afraid of any appearance of favoritism after my statements on relationships.

  She saluted, and after I returned it said, "I'm a 'yes' on the mission."

  "Good," I said. I'd assumed so.

  "I assume we won't be seeing each other socially?"

  "Afraid not," I said. And I'd hate that. I took a long look at her. She was just 16 of our years, 24 standard, at her peak and incredible. Face, body, skin, everything flawless and proportioned. She knew it and knew how to use it. A bit too visible for an Operative, but Earth's definitions of beauty were different. She was also a first class actress. That recalled to me a game we'd played the other night that had left us flushed, weak and unable to move. I shoved those thoughts away.

  "Well, we've been there before," she said. "So count me in on the mission." She saluted before we could say any more.

  I returned her salute and she left. It took some seconds to calm myself enough to continue.

  Next in was Cecil Tanaka. I'd grabbed him for his language skills, degree in chemistry and experience in plastic and metal fabrication. He'd done all kinds of improv work in orbital construction. He was a combat vet from Mtali. Highly rated by my criteria. I wasn't sure I could convince him to stay, though.

  After he reported, I sat him down at ease. He obviously had things he wanted to talk about. He sprawled in the old stuffed chair I'd acquired in lieu of the issue chairs, which are just right for grilling a derelict recruit and no fun for professionals.

  "Can you give any more details on duration or location, sir?" he asked.

  I shook my head. "I have no idea myself. It's a potential threat issue," I said. "We may stand down in a month or two. We may disappear at any time. We may all die."

  He scowled slightly. "Thing is," he said, "I want to help you, sir. But I have a family. I can't just leave them without a word, possibly never go back and abandon them to the fates."

  "I know," I agreed. "And you aren't the only one in that situation."

  "Any clue?" he asked.

  Damn, I wanted to tell him. He was so good at what he did, and we could use him. But there couldn't be a suggestion of a rumor of a leak of a hint. "I can't," I said.

  He scowled deeper. I could tell he was agonizing over it.

  "Let me make this easy . . . well, less complicated for you," I said.

  "Okay."

  "If your family is important to you, which is a good thing, then put them first. You've done your duty and more, you can serve honorably here, and if it ever happens to be something we can talk about, you can tell them you were selected but had to refuse." I hated to let him go, but I didn't want to destroy his family and if there was a chance of it bothering him, it could blow an operation. This is no criticism of him. He was a damned good soldier and a damned good man. I needed something just a little different. Someone more psychotic.

  "I guess so," he said. "Well, thanks for the invite, sir. And good hunting." He left without ceremony.

  I whittled 293 down to 240 that afternoon. I would take no more than 200, and perhaps a few less. So I had 40 spares I could cripple in training. It sounds callous, but one has to do real human tests of techniques to get a good assessment. And that causes casualties. Also, I'd found out since I'd sent out the invites that three of them had been on Earth. Anyone who'd been on Earth in a military or diplomatic capacity would have a photo on file, and likely DNA, too. Their intelligence services are paranoid on the subject. I couldn't use those people. However, since I couldn't mention "Earth" in any fashion, they'd simply have to flunk out in training and be sent away. Get the idea of how "fair" this was going to be?

  Then, there were the gender ratios. 15% of the Forces are female and only 3% of Special Warfare. I was running around 25% with my current selections. I had to have women on Earth to help maintain cover. Large groups of single men are a red flag to an investigator. "Couples" and single women are necessary cover. I couldn't lower my standards, but I had to keep as many women as possible.

&nb
sp; But I wasn't done yet. I had a list of people I needed to speak to regarding our training.

  Senior Sergeant Ryan Mercer was a recreational skydiver. He had three hundred and nineteen military jumps, four of them technically combat jumps, and four thousand and more civilian jumps. So I made him team jumpmaster. "Ryan, I want everyone qualified in a week," I told him, "and that includes suicide drops." I was referring to a High Altitude, Very Low Opening jump. One pops the canopy about three seconds from pending impact. If there's a mistake . . .

  Alternately, it refers to exiting a nape of the earth aircraft and only having three seconds to deploy and hit. Both are very useful in our line of work. Both require expertise and precision.

  "A week?"

  "Ten days," I confirmed. "They're all yours, and take anyone you need as jumpmasters."

  He frowned, wrinkled his brow, and said, "It means five jumps a day, every day, starting tomorrow."

  "We have pilots, we have the craft. Get to it," I encouraged.

  "Yes, sir. I'll have you a schedule this afternoon."

  Then I called in Roger Smith and Tracy Liu. They were my master climber and fitness instructor, respectively. "In less than a month, everyone must be able to scale a standard building wall," I told them. "Get to it."

  Rappelling, small arms, unarmed combat, demolitions most especially, everything we already did, the new people had to be brought up to speed on and the veterans refreshed. Everyone had to be ready as soon as possible for us to deploy. Political situations change rapidly and we couldn't count on plenty of training time. If we happened to have it, we'd use it, but in the meantime, we had to hit it hard. My job was to get everyone thinking like Operatives. That was a task by itself, and not one I could delegate.

  The next morning, we met in the mothballed hangar that we would be cleaning out and calling our own. It wasn't the ideal building, security speaking, but it was roomy, cold, drafty, dusty, and otherwise perfect for creating a training environment. They were all in formation when I strode in, and I cut it short. Very short.