by Linda Nagata
The shooting starts as they reach the gate. He sees distant muzzle flashes like sideways candles. Hears bullets buzzing down the street, tumbling against the walls. Answering fire erupts, deafening in its proximity. The attackers fall back.
There is no moon, and there are no houselights to be seen anywhere along the street. Blowing dust shrouds all but the brightest stars. He can see a waiting truck only by the dim red light that spills from its open doors. It’s a double-cab pickup with a high clearance and a rigid canopy enclosing the cargo bed. One of the soldiers opens the tailgate doors. “Get inside! Strap into a harness if you can. If not, fucking hold on.”
Ryan doesn’t hesitate; he scrambles right in. Miles pushes Dano after him and then crawls in behind.
It’s a good-sized space. There are side windows in the canopy and a skylight four and a half feet above the cargo bed. A thick mat covers the bed and the walls.
Ryan raps his knuckles against the canopy. “Solid,” he announces. “Fucker’s armored.”
Canvas seats and harnesses are anchored to the sidewalls. Nets stretched across the ceiling hold gear. Miles can see these details because red light from the cab wells through an intervening window, providing a baseline illumination. There’s not enough light for him to be sure, but it looks like one net holds spare magazines and another has packs of what could be C-4. One thing he is certain about is a collection of helmets. He pops that net and pulls them out.
Ryan has moved all the way in, taking a seat closest to the cab. He pulls on a harness. Dano straps in next to him.
“Put these on,” Miles says, handing them helmets. Then he straps in too, facing them, shoulder against the cab window.
Six soldiers climb in after them, vague shapes crowding in the near dark. The cargo bed fills with the heat of bodies and the smell of fresh sweat. The tailgate doors slam shut, muting the sound of gunfire. Facemasks come off, helmets go on.
In the cab, more soldiers. Miles watches them through the window. He recognizes Jameson riding shotgun. A leaner guy already strapped in behind the wheel. Two more in the backseat, wrestling with Fatima. She is struggling in her restraints, resisting their efforts to get her strapped safely in. Does she even understand this is a rescue? Or in her mind is she being kidnapped again?
Harnesses are secured. Doors close. The engine revs and the truck surges forward. Somewhere behind them, a muffled explosion. Outside, the shooting starts up again.
A side window close to Miles is shoved open. He ducks, not wanting to catch a stray bullet. Faint red highlights let him identify a KO in the hands of the soldier beside him. The weapon is aimed out the window, but the soldier isn’t shooting. No one in the truck is shooting. The gunfire outside fades into intermittent firecracker pops, barely audible over the rush of air past the open window.
The window gets slammed shut.
A hearty masculine voice rises above the road noise. “Listen up, friends. My name is Rohan and this is a Requisite Operations mission. Things are going to get ugly in the next few minutes, but don’t worry. The air force is looking out for us, and we will get you home. So hold on and don’t get in the way.”
Leaving Town
Khalid is behind the wheel of the DF-21, a rugged, lightly armored truck that the QRF is relying on to get them out of Tadmur. True is squeezed into the backseat. She’s behind Jameson, who’s up front riding shotgun because he’s too damn big to sit anywhere else. Fatima is next to her, with Chris on the far side.
True is braced against the DF-21’s acceleration, holding her KO in a one-handed grip, her other hand poised above the switch that will lower the window if she needs to shoot. She has used her weapon only once over the course of the mission. She hopes she won’t have to use it again. A street battle would guarantee civilian casualties. Not something they want.
They’ll engage only if they are trapped and have no choice.
She leans forward to look at the dash display, where there’s a feed from a rearview camera. She can see muzzle flash and she gets a glimpse of what might be a pursuing truck before Khalid wrenches the DF-21 around a corner.
Damn.
True had hoped to stave off pursuit. When they pulled out, she triggered the kamikazes. The devices, designed to deliver small controlled explosions, would have taken out the electronics in the downstairs office and disabled both trucks in the compound without damaging any neighboring homes.
But Hussam was the head of the Al-Furat Coalition. He had allies and soldiers in the surrounding neighborhood. No way to sabotage all their vehicles.
Fatima too is watching the rearview display, her expression fixed except for her lips which move as she speaks too softly to be heard over the road noise. A prayer, maybe.
Chris had summarized her condition over comms as he worked with True to get her strapped into a safety harness.
“No gross physical injuries,” he said, speaking just loud enough for the mic to pick up his voice, but not so loud that Fatima could hear. “But he’s fucked with her head. When we came in, she tried to protect him. I don’t think she understands why we’re here.”
“She’s in shock,” True said.
“Yeah. And unpredictable. That’s why she’s in restraints. You need to talk her down.”
It isn’t a good time for talking. True grabs a handhold, bracing herself as Khalid whips the DF-21 hard around a traffic circle. He’s riding an adrenaline high, racing to get them out into open desert. “We got fucking Hussam!” he shouts, his voice amplified over comms. “I can’t believe it. We got the self-righteous bastard. And we got him alive.”
Rohan answers over comms, annoyingly matter-of-fact, given the circumstances: “Bounty pays either way.”
True turns to look in the back. The light-amplifying property of her visor reveals the tense faces of the three rescued hostages, and beyond them Juliet, Nate, Nasir, Felice, and Rohan, all strapped into canvas seats and swaying in unison as Khalid uses speed to smooth the bumps in the road. Rohan notices her gaze and flashes a thumbs-up. Shadows hide his smile but she knows it’s there.
Gunfire rips overhead. Her first instinct is to duck. Her second is to trigger the window to open so she can return fire. The thick glass drops out of sight, the roaring of jet engines pours in on the dusty air. Lincoln yells over comms: “No threat! Reseal the truck. That was just RQ-3 discouraging a rooftop shooter.”
“Fuck,” True whispers, all too aware of her booming heart. She triggers the window to close again. Jameson and Chris close their windows too.
RQ-3 is one of a trio of Hai-Lin UF-29s—unmanned fighters—that make up ReqOps’ air force. Lincoln has assigned all three to this mission to provide an escort for the DF-21 and for Blackbird as it carries Hussam away.
True calls up Blackbird’s status on her display. The Kobrin 900-s reports itself at twelve hundred feet and still climbing. Hussam is suspended beneath the little autonomous helicopter, in a Kevlar cargo pouch at the end of a tether. If Blackbird is shot down, Hussam will go down with it. Under no circumstances will he be released alive back into the wild.
RQ-3 continues to shadow the DF-21. True hears its engine even past the armored sanctity of the cab and the blast of its air conditioning. She watches the buildings flash past, but there is no more gunfire. No resistance.
Abruptly they are past the last compound and into open desert. The DF-21’s headlights are off. Khalid is no longer wearing his AltWrld visor. He’s got a MARC instead, to help him see in the dark. True doesn’t envy his task. She can hardly see the road past the streamers of sand that skitter across it—but it’s easy to see where the road is going, because its path is marked in the distance by the fierce silhouettes of the burned-out tanks they passed on the way in.
This desert: ravaged by war and not much left to fight over. There’s petroleum in the ground still, though it’s not worth what it used to be. It’s not worth the hell this region has become. Here, now, the fighting is an end in itself, a way of life, and that cold fact i
s one reason why PMCs like ReqOps exist.
“Couple of technicals behind us,” Rohan says over comms.
True leans forward to look again at the dash display. The feed from the rearview camera is a kind of night vision, but shifted to display in dull red. It shows two small pickup trucks pursuing them out of Tadmur. Both are running with lights off. Machine guns are mounted in their cargo beds.
Lincoln assures the team, “We’re on it.”
~~~
The command post’s wall monitor displays a continuously updated three-dimensional map of the desert outside Tadmur. It lets Lincoln track the shifting positions of ReqOps’ equipment: the squadron of three Hai-Lin fighters, Blackbird, and the DF-21 racing up the highway. Also, a civilian convoy moving south. And of course the enemy, currently represented by two technicals speeding past Tadmur’s outlying neighborhood.
“Targets acquired,” Renata announces in a stern voice, operating from behind VR goggles. “Authorization?”
“Stand by,” Lincoln tells her. “Let’s give them a few more seconds to clear the town.”
Hayden, at his desk in front of the monitor, drags RQ-3’s feed from the screen’s periphery, depositing it beside the map. It shows only desert and mountains as the UAV circles, getting in position for a strike. Onboard AIs pilot the Hai-Lins, but it’s Renata who commands the squadron through the twitching, tapping motion of her fingers inside their black-lace gloves. She provides instruction, oversight, and authorization for the use of weapons.
“Okay,” Lincoln tells her. “You’re authorized. Take the shot at your discretion.”
“Acknowledging authorization.”
Hayden looks back, wide-eyed in excitement. He’s never seen the Hai-Lins used in combat before. None of them have. This is the first time the UAVs will fire weapons in a live operation.
Lincoln feels a touch against his arm and glances down to find Tamara beside him, come to watch.
RQ-3 completes its turn. The technicals are dead ahead.
Renata says, “Missiles away.”
Even as she speaks, their leased surveillance drone, cruising high above the action, issues a red alert.
~~~
On the dash screen, True glimpses a missile streaking in from the southern sky, almost too fast to see, and then sequential explosions erupt: billowing fireballs that swallow the two technicals, spitting out hard pieces, gun turrets and engine blocks that tumble into the night. She feels the concussion in her ears, in her bones.
The DF-21 jumps as Khalid leans harder on the accelerator.
“Take it easy,” Chris snaps. “We’re clear. No one left back there.”
Lincoln says, “Premature assessment, Chris. We are not clear. Three bogies inbound from the southeast. Silhouetting as Arkinson XOs. No transponders.”
“Fuck,” Chris whispers in high-definition audio.
True’s grip tightens on the armrest, tightens around the stock of her KO as she pushes back against lurching fear. None of their pre-mission intelligence indicated Al-Furat possessed Arkinsons—cheap and disposable jet-powered UAVs with a per-unit cost of just over five million American. They’re designed to carry a payload of four slim Tau Hammer missiles—self-guided hunters that can obliterate a lightly armed ground vehicle like the DF-21 as easily as RQ-3 took out the technicals and the soldiers who rode in them. The absence of transponders means there’s no telling who the Arkinsons belong to, though it’s a damn good indication they’re not friendlies.
The worst part: there’s nothing anyone in the DF-21 can do to defend themselves. No need to look farther than the scattered debris of the technicals behind them or the looming silhouettes of the burned-out tanks ahead for evidence of that. It’s on Renata to serve as their champion, wielding her squadron of Hai-Lins. True is grateful the Hai-Lins are out there, but it’s a hard truth that her life and the lives of everyone in the DF-21 rely on the battle skills of machines, of competing AIs, to determine if they ever get home.
~~~
Lincoln’s first move is to simplify the battle space.
He opens a voice link to the Kobrin 900-s carrying Hussam. “Blackbird,” he orders, “move out. West along the highway, maximum speed while maintaining current elevation.”
“You want an escort with that?” Renata asks from behind her VR goggles.
“Negative.” Blackbird is slow compared to the oncoming Arkinsons and it’s only lightly armed, making it as vulnerable as the DF-21, but it’s not carrying ReqOps personnel, so it’s not a priority. Hussam El-Hashem is its only cargo, and while Lincoln would like to deliver him alive, it isn’t necessary. The bounty will still pay and it’ll cover the loss of the helicopter. He tells Renata, “Focus defensive operations on our people. Set up for autonomous defense, standard protocol, and hold.”
“Roger that, boss,” she responds. “Three on three.”
Lincoln’s gaze fixes on the three-dimensional map. “Tamara, check known armaments for the Iraqi government.”
“Already on it, Lincoln,” she answers. “And… negative. Arkinsons are not part of the Iraqi arsenal. Probably a private registration. Checking area PMCs.”
Lincoln’s jaw sets. He got into the business of soldiering when he was eighteen, in part because it was what he knew, what he’d grown up with. But he also wanted to serve. Serve his country, serve the greater good, using the skills he was blessed with to do it. The QRF is a new phase in that tradition of service. His people are out there at the risk of their lives. It is his duty to support them to the extent of his abilities and the limit of his credit line. If it comes to a dogfight, ReqOps could lose a Hai-Lin, maybe more than one, escalating the cost of the operation. But if so, he’ll make it up in other business. He’ll take the chance, because he is all in.
That’s the promise he makes to his people. No halfway measures.
Without waiting for Tamara’s search results, he issues his next order. “Renata, initiate defensive response.”
The rules of private combat are mostly unwritten but well understood among companies that regularly operate in the TEZ. A neutral PMC would not send equipment into the field to interfere with a third-party action. So the Arkinsons’ presence in their area of operation marks them as enemy combatants, freeing Lincoln to take defensive actions, confident that he will not incur sanctions from the US government or ReqOps’ allied contractors.
In all circumstances, right action demands that the welfare of civilian bystanders be taken into account, and as a practical matter, any PMC concerned with maintaining a viable reputation, one that allows it to operate openly, would strive to avoid collateral damage and loss of life. But in the real world, war is a messy business—which is why there is a thriving regional company specializing in the negotiation of financial compensation for incidental deaths, injuries, and the destruction of property.
But on the desert highway there are no innocent civilians to be caught in the line of fire and the only property involved is the already war-torn road.
“I don’t care who the Arkinsons belong to,” Lincoln says. “Neutralize them. Do not let them get off a shot.”
“Roger that. Initiating autonomous defense, standard protocol, targeting Bogie-1, Bogie-2, Bogie-3. Weapons are active.”
With the standard protocol in effect, the squadron AIs will operate on an instruction set written to minimize collateral property damage and avoid all civilian casualties. Excessive safeguards, tonight. “Correction,” Lincoln intones. “Friend or foe.”
“Confirming friend-or-foe protocol,” Renata echoes in a crisp, emotionless voice. The squadron AIs will no longer have to calculate the probability of collateral damage, a change that will speed up their response time. As Renata cedes control, her hands go still.
The map shows the trio of Hai-Lins peeling apart. Lincoln doesn’t know what their next move will be. Neither does Renata. Unless the Arkinsons withdraw, they are about to witness a dogfight between AIs. The Hai-Lins are technically superior, but they’re not fu
lly loaded. RQ-3 has already spent missiles against the technicals. And the AIs that fly the squadron have never before engaged in actual aerial combat. Up until now, all their battle experience has been in simulations. Their training will meet reality tonight.
~~~
True doesn’t see the unmanned jets engaging over the desert, but she hears them despite the DF-21’s insulation, despite its armor, the rumble of its engine, the rattling of its frame as Khalid leans on the accelerator, racing west to escape the battle. But there’s no way he can outrun combat aircraft. The drone fighters scream in the night, nearer, farther. Loud enough to shake the stars.
She braces with one hand on the back of Jameson’s seat, thinking of Alex and how angry he’ll be if it ends here for her, if she doesn’t make it home.
The DF-21 shoots over a slight rise. It goes briefly airborne, then comes down hard, skidding across a patch of sand. True feels the jolt in her spine as she’s held down by the bruising grip of her harness. Beside her, Fatima gasps. Angry yells erupt in back.
It takes True a second to get her harness to loosen up enough that she can move again. When she does, she turns to check Fatima, who sits hunched in her restraints, loose hair hiding her face. True looks next into the cargo bed. If anyone back there got bounced around, it could mean a broken neck, a broken back. But everyone is strapped in, strapped down. Saved by their restraints but furious all the same.
True looks to the front again and shouts over the road noise. “Khalid, you in a hurry?”
“We’re okay, Mama,” he yells back. He doesn’t slow down. “I just want to make sure we get home!” Fear lurks beneath the bravado in his voice.
“I want to get home too,” Jameson warns him from an arm’s reach away in the shotgun seat. “If you roll us, kid, I swear I’m gonna break your neck.”
Fatima raises her head. She cannot raise her hands—her restraints prevent it—so she shakes her head to get the lank hair off her face. Her oily cheeks reflect the console’s red gleam. Red glints give an unholy aura to her eyes.