by Jack Colrain
“They hit a school,” Hope said, her voice trembling, and the words stuck into Daniel’s chest like a knife. Somehow, he knew the gist of what she was going to say before she explained, and their mental connection had nothing to do with it. “An elementary school... three Mozari-worshipers. They killed...” She couldn’t even get the words out.
“Sixty kids,” Casey Peters said, unusually somber. Sixty Elizabeths. “And eleven teachers.”
Daniel tried to drop into a chair, but missed. He didn’t bother to get up from the floor, either. He wanted to look away from the TV, but somehow couldn’t, though beside it he saw Hope looking back at him, checking how he was. She lowered her eyes.
“Where the fuck is this?” Kevin Bailey asked hollowly as he arrived, the last of the team to see the screen.... “Fuck, where is this?! My Sam could be—”
“Maryland,” Palmer said quietly. “Nowhere near your or Jess’s kids.”
On screen, the coverage returned to the newsroom, where an angry-looking female anchor was barely holding it together. “Speaking from the First Church of the Mozari, we have the Archimandrite, Charles Kebbell, on the line.”
“Mister Kebbell—”
“Charles, please. There’s no need to stand on ceremony.”
“Archimandrite,” the journalist said pointedly, and something flickered in Kebbell’s eyes… something that Daniel didn’t like one bit. “The Church of the Mozari is coming in for some—and perhaps a lot of people will say understandable—criticism and scrutiny after this latest outrage.”
“You’re quite right,” Kebbell said. “It is understandable that people will have some... concerns, because, of course, people both fear that which they don’t understand and have a tendency to assume that the most extreme individuals in any group or society, the ones who grab the headlines and sell to sensationalist and reactionary audiences, are somehow the average or the norm. Of course, most groups are just filled with normal people who want to get on with their lives in peace. Most white people aren’t neo-Nazis, most Muslims aren’t Jihadists, most black people aren’t gang members... You get the idea.”
“So, you’re saying most Mozari-worshipers aren’t violent or radicalized extremists.”
“Exactly. Of course, they’re not.”
“But there have been a rising number of incidents of violence enacted by self-proclaimed members of your church.”
“Anyone can claim to be something they’re not. That’s something to remember from the get-go.”
“Are you saying these people weren’t members of your—”
“Some, regrettably, have been. Others have not. And our church, while the largest denomination of the faithful to the Mozari, is not the only one. You can worship the Mozari in many churches now, as is right. Now, don’t misunderstand me, please. I accept that there are some individuals, perhaps mentally ill individuals, who have been members of our community, but who have not, for whatever reason, lived up to the values that any sensible community accepts.”
“Such as shooting up churches, and massacring children at an elementary school?”
“You may rest assured that the First Church of the Mozari utterly condemns such heinous behavior in the strongest terms imaginable. These acts go against all of the teachings we have gleaned from them. ‘Unite and live,’ they told us, and that is a message of peace and tolerance for each other. But all societies commit acts that are worthy of equal condemnation, and yet do not receive it. For example, the missile attack on the Mozari, and the harassment of those who have accepted the word of the Mozari.”
“Turn that crap off,” Hammond growled, and Hope didn’t even bother looking for the remote; she just yanked the power cable out of the wall. “That’s enough of that bastard’s bullshit for one day. Hell, for one lifetime.” Nobody had a word of disagreement. “I don’t recall any vacation time being assigned today, so I’m sure we’ve all got better things to do. That Armory won’t inventory itself, for one thing. Kinsella, Bailey, you’re up.”
Daniel watched numbly as they snapped to and headed out of the lobby. While Hammond checked a clipboard and tapped Casey Peters on the shoulder to get his attention, Daniel dug his nails into his palms, giving himself something on which to focus, to center himself and bring himself back to usefulness. He looked around to check who else was around. He was surprised to see that Evans was missing from the area. True, she’d never been particularly sociable, but she was always alert and ready for duty; probably more so than anyone else in the camp, other than Chief Hammond himself.
Figuring that Hope wouldn’t mind, as the issue was duty-related, he concentrated on her, just like he concentrated on things when he was wearing the suit, and thought, ‘Hope, do you know where Sergeant Evans is?’
‘Barracks, Mess,’ her thought came back.
Jessica Evans was crying, but she clenched her jaw and turned her head away in order to wipe the tears aside when Daniel walked in. She’d apparently been sitting in a corner of the Mess, alone, while everyone else had been in the briefing room.
“Evans.” He paused, not wanting to seem too intrusive.
“West.”
“I wondered if, well, if you were all right.”
“That’s a first,” she grunted.
“Yeah. It’s the first time you’ve not been right there ready for whatever comes next. You keep yourself to yourself pretty much, you don’t take any shit, and that’s your pattern, but you’re there and alert because that’s your pattern, as well. Not being there and alert, that’s new. That news report?”
“No, it’s nothing. Nothing important.” She didn’t meet his eyes, but in his training for a career in Law, he’d long since gotten used to knowing when people were lying. Not that it took much training to tell that today; people didn’t really cry for nothing, even if they didn’t know what the actual reason for it was themselves.
Daniel shook his head and sat down beside her. “It’s not nothing. People don’t cry over nothing, not really. But, you know what, it’s OK.”
“Is it? You see shit like... what just happened, and you think anything’s OK?”
“I think it’s OK to be scared. Actually,” he admitted, “I think it’s pretty damned sensible to be scared.”
Evans tapped her chest with one fingertip. “I always thought I was brave. Or wanted to be.”
“Who says you’re not?”
She glared. “These tears, West.”
Daniel shook his head. “They don’t say that. Scared isn’t the opposite of brave. I’ve been scared since I took my friend’s place and ended up here. I don’t expect to ever not be scared again. Actually, I don’t think you can have bravery without being scared.”
“You’re a weird one, West.” She was still crying.
“Yeah, but I’m not wrong. You’re scared and do the things anyway; that’s bravery.”
“So, where does anger come into the way of West?”
“Anger? Yeah, that definitely has a place. Somebody shoots up a school...” And now it hit him, with saying it aloud. The anger. “My sister was eight when a guy shot up her class. She’ll always be eight now.” He grunted. “And that was just a normal school shooting; some fucking nutcase, not a planned paramilitary attack.”
Evans tipped her head back, thudding it once against the wall. “Jesus, I should be asking if you’re OK.”
“It’s Daniel, but thanks.” He was about to say that of course he was OK, but he caught himself in the lie before it came out. Not today, he wasn’t. “And, no, I’m not OK. I don’t think any of us are right now.”
“Harry, my husband, is an elementary school teacher. In Seattle. A couple of times, when I’ve dropped him off at work, or he’s collected me from the airport on a furlough, I’ve met some of his students, and their parents. They’re... well, just kids, you know? Not cops or soldiers, or...”
“I know.”
“I mean, none of them are within thousands of miles of what happened, they’re not in any
danger—not from this group, at least—but I feel as if they are. Like an attack on one child is an attack on all of them. I can see how people can attack cops or soldiers, or even politicians, if they get to thinking that those are the people who are on the opposite side. I can even get that there are psychos who do this shit on their own. But what the fuck organization thinks six- or eight-year-old kids are political opponents, or that killing them can make their warped world any better, somehow? Seriously, West; how fucked in the head do you have to be to think like that?”
“That’s radicalization, I guess.”
“It’s beyond radicalization; it’s… an act of war.” She rubbed her eyes again. “What we should do—all of us, the parents, the cops, the Army, this squad—what we should do is haul ass over to Boston where their headquarters is and rip that fucking so-called church apart. Tear it down brick by brick, and beat that Kebbell guy of theirs to death. And everyone else who follows his bullshit and preys on kids.
“It’s what’s they deserve,” Daniel agreed. “Right now, though, those bastards are just a symptom. We have to deal with the cause first. Maybe the Mozari do want this shit. Once their space gods are blown to Hell, the Mozzarellas can get dealt with.”
“Can’t come soon enough, West. I’ll be ready, able, and willing. Don’t you have any doubts about me on that score.”
Daniel nodded, and with the knowledge that some of her sadness had turned to determination, he left her there to compose herself the rest of the way. Hammond was waiting just outside the door, looking at him thoughtfully. “Nicely handled, West,” he said at last. “Nicely handled.”
Twenty-Two
Friday was Exo-day. For most of the week, the Exo-team trained in their suits, trained with other Mozari-derived technologies, and, twice a week, conducted live-fire exercise maneuvers using only their natural muscles and agility. On Friday, they got to have mock-combats at the Killtown MOUT site in their Exo-suits. These exercises were restricted to using standard military weapons, not the XR-01 railguns, which were only used at the firing range; only the firing range had sufficient backstop behind it to prevent stray shots from hitting things off-reservation.
These exercises were a little less tiring than the regular ones without suits, but they were more difficult in other ways. Getting good angles and fire superiority on each other was a lot harder when nobody could see each other because of the suits’ stealth-blending abilities, and because they made everybody’s reactions so much faster. Thus, Friday’s game was always a matter of fighting smarter rather than harder. More about strategy than tactics.
“The same thing, surely?” Daniel had asked Hammond at one point that day.
“Lots of people think that. Lots of people are wrong. Strategy is about big-picture planning. The strategy you want to win in advance. Figure out what the aim is and what sort of things have to happen to meet that victory condition. Tactics are what you do on the field, reacting to the flow of the situation and making sure that the things the strategy says have to happen, happen.”
“So, what’s the strategy today?”
“You decide. I’m sitting this one out,” Hammond answered flatly.
“Why?”
“Partly because the Webbies are a man down since Althaus’ replacement still hasn’t arrived. Partly because part of your training is to train you to become an officer, a leader. Based on your training scores, and performance throughout, I’m appointing you my deputy.”
Daniel froze, stunned. “But Evans, or Kinsella—”
“Are perfectly good choices also. But they’ve been in the service too long to think outside of the box the way you do. And they have units to go back to someday. If you stay on... now you have a home unit. Everybody should have one, and this is where you’ve bonded.”
“I don’t know—”
“Also, because I damn well say so. Now, make a plan, round up the Homies, and get on with the exercise.”
Daniel looked over the central building in Killtown and made sure he wasn’t thinking anything to Hope. “Evans,” he said, “here’s how we’ll work this. I want to have a person on each corner of the square, but out of sight.”
“Right.”
If she had any problems with his being chosen to run the Homies for the exercise, she’d so far shown no sign of it. Nor had any of the others, which Daniel appreciated. “I’ll take the interior,” he continued. “I’ll radio in when I’m in position, and the exercise can start.”
“Gotcha, L-T,” she said.”
“West is fine.”
“Not when you’re in charge.” She beckoned to Peters, Palmer, Kinsella, and Bailey, and started directing them where to place themselves for best effect. Daniel, meanwhile, headed into the building.
Hammond sat back in a chair in Admin watching a bank of monitors, each of which showed the view from one of the unit’s helmet cams. He watched with interest as Daniel headed alone into the building his team were supposed to defend. He also watched with interest as Hope Ying divided her own team. She assigned Buapueak and Svoboda to be snipers, while she, Ebrahimi, and Rausch formed up ready to move out.
“In position,” Daniel called over the radio. Hope did likewise.
“Go, go, go,” Hammond radioed back.
Hope Ying turned to Buapueak and Svoboda. “When West’s team splits into available targets, pick them off. At the very least, keep them occupied in trying to avoid and spot you.”
“Yes, Captain,” the lean Buapueak said. Svoboda was already on her way to a rooftop. Hope beckoned to Rausch and Ebrahimi and pointed to an alley leading away from the center square. When they trotted towards it, they almost vanished, so well did the nanites help them and their uniforms blend.
Daniel wasn’t particularly expecting to see Hope coming. The Exo-suits’ camouflage was nanite-based, and a molecule-thin layer of the outer coating soaked through to the exterior of any clothing work, then agitated and altered itself to disrupt the shape and pattern of the wearer, the better to blend with the background.
On the other hand, he didn’t need to see her.
“I think I see Pipsqueak,” Kinsella said over the Homie radio frequency. That meant the sniper was probably in a shooting position. When not moving, camouflage and fieldcraft trumped the Exo-suits’ blending tech.
“Keep eyes on him,” Daniel replied
“He doesn’t see me.”
“Good. Stand by.”
“He’s moving.”
Daniel cursed his luck. “Take the shot.”
“Too late.”
“Damnit. Follow him, carefully. Anyone got eyes on Svoboda?” There was a chorus of negatives.
“I think I saw something shift on Corner Delta,” Palmer called in. “Yeah, definite movement, at least two targets.”
“Don’t engage.”
“They’re going for a pincer movement, getting an angle for the south window.”
“Copy that.” Daniel expected no less of Hope: Use the snipers to pin down the defending team, and attack from a blind spot to pick them off in crossfire. Suddenly, there was the crack of gunfire from outside, and Peters cursed.
“Sniper, shit.”
“Are you dead?”
“Yeah,” Peters admitted.
“Then shut up and get the hell off the air.” With that, Daniel lifted a concealed panel from the floor, and he lowered himself into a grave-like pit partly filled with the mechanism for working a pop-up target. He pulled the panel over himself and muted his radio.
Outside, Kinsella spotted a slight hint of movement, and she took a shot at what she hoped was Svoboda. Immediately, a three-round burst of marker rounds bit at her left arm from a trajectory far to the left of where she’d been aiming. She hurled herself back, scrambling to get out of the line of fire while returning fire one-handed.
Palmer darted up behind her and started loosing three-round bursts at the source of the shot while she shuffled into cover on her ass. He followed, reloading. “What were you doing
?”
“I thought I was shooting at Svoboda.”
“Well, it’s Pipsqueak, and he’s not where you thought she was.”
Daniel heard the crack of a grenade, and then booted feet above him.
“Clear,” Rausch’s voice said, and he was echoed by the same word from a different door, this coming from Ebrahimi.
“Where is everybody?” Ebrahimi asked.
“West may have gone out to engage the snipers,” Hope said, “but I don’t think he’s that foolish, and he would have left somebody inside. Upstairs.”
That was the word he was waiting for. He listened closely, to be sure all three sets of boots were heading upward, and then he drew his weapon: a tablet computer. He tapped one control and waited for the yells of surprise and anger.
When he emerged from his hiding place, he went over and rapped his knuckles on the black wall that now blocked off the staircase. He knew a second such wall had grown at the top of the stairs, since that was how he had programmed the nano-block that he and Hammond had previously tested. “Sorry I can’t stay to talk; I have snipers to beat.” Grinning, he ran out of the building, following the route Hope had taken in. Now, he resumed his link with her mind, just enough to feel her anger, frustration, and a hint of amusement and admiration.
Evans popped smoke and tossed it on the roof above her head. “Bailey, chalk rounds on my marker.” She dashed away from the building, zigzagging with marker rounds snapping at her heels. A barrage of 40mm chalk rounds arced from Bailey’s M207 across the street, landing on top of Buapueak’s position. Something that sounded like “Yet mair” came from above and the sniper fire stopped, but the last shot had hit Evans in the ass.
“Sit-rep,” Daniel called, suppressing his excitement.
“Peters, Kinsella, and Evans are down,” Palmer called back. “Pipsqueak is down.”