by Danny Loomis
The four assembled a surface-to-air missile launcher before his disbelieving eyes. Their quiet competence spoke volumes about the level of their training. Carefully, without undue motion, he keyed an alert.
“This is Eagle’s Nest,” Brita said. “What’s your situation?”
“Four gooners on roof with me,” he whispered. “Setting up a SAM launcher. Want me to take ’em out?”
“Negative on that, Eagle Three. Let’s see where they go. We need to find their main headquarters. Maybe this crew can lead us. Can you tag them when they leave?”
“Wilco. Out.” Ian froze as one of the men looked directly at him for a moment, then away. It always spooked him when someone did that.
By this time the rebels had loaded the SAM launcher, and were leaving the rooftop. Once out of sight, Ian scooted over to the SAM and gave it a quick once-over.
“Eagle’s nest, the SAM is in active mode. Can be set off by a remote. I’m not sure how to disarm one of these. Can you get someone up here?”
“That’s an affirm. Your main job is to follow them, or stick a tag on their vehicle. We’ll take care of the SAM.”
Ian slipped down the stairs, trying to hurry without undue noise. At the ground floor he cracked the door and peered out. Good. Their van was backed up close to the building. He waited until it started to move, eeled out and slapped a sensor on the bumper with a sticky patch to hold it in place.
By the time he reached the front of the building, a floater was gliding to a stop next to him, Lieutenant Stanton behind the wheel. He’d barely gotten seated before the lieutenant almost snapped his head off accelerating down the street.
“I got a sensor on ’em, Lieutenant. Tac 3 frequency.”
“You guide me, Irish.”
“Will do, Sir.” Ian brought up the city’s map up on his helmets’ visual and spotted the blinking cipher. “Turn right, next block. We’re looking for a white van.”
Minutes later they were a block behind the vehicle, which cautiously drove the speed limit so it wouldn’t draw undue attention. After a quarter hour’s drive, it pulled into the underground garage of a large, sprawling single-story structure which held several vacant stores.
The Lieutenant stopped across the street. “I’ve got two squads on the way, Irish. We need confirmation this is their hideaway. If it is, we may be able to put a real hurt on their plans for Richland.”
Ian laid his rifle in the back of the floater and stepped out, settling his ghillie suit into place. “If it’s here I’ll find it, Sir. This may take some time.” With that, he disappeared as far as the Lieutenant was concerned, except for an occasional shimmer when he moved down the ramp into the parking garage. Lieutenant Stanton shivered. Too damn much like having ghosts around when you worked with the scouts.
Ian glided down the ramp, close to the right wall. He entered the garage in time to see the stairwell door close on the last of the four men. He hurried over and stood to the side of the door, opening it a crack. There was a diminishing sound of footsteps down the stairs. He slipped through and crept after them.
On the bottom landing he faced another door. Locked. Just as he took his hand from the knob, it opened. He flattened against the wall. A guard walked through and went up the steps.
Ian advanced through the opening and to the side, allowing the door to close in a natural manner. There were voices and the static sound of communications gear down the hallway to the right. He waited. Soon the guard returned, and he followed in his wake. Sure enough, it was a commo room. Three open doorways led off it. He took the first one on the left, and moved through to a store room. He counted over a dozen SAMs, six cases of rifles, several cases of grenades and two pallet loads of ammunition.
Another corridor led to a storeroom converted into sleeping quarters. Twenty-four cots lined the walls. Against the back wall a partition had been slid partially aside to reveal an unlighted corridor or tunnel. Must be their back door. He crept to the next room.
Over the next two hours he located three bolt holes from the rebel’s headquarters. He’d also overheard enough to convince him this was their nerve center for Richland. He crept out the way he’d come.
Halfway up the stairs he heard someone descending. Another guard, in a hurry. Probably late for duty. He reached the next landing and shoved himself into a corner. The guard descended past him, but the barrel of his rifle caught on Ian’s arm. He jumped back in surprise.
Ian’s ghillies slowed his ability to grasp the guard, giving him time to react with a butt stroke to Ian’s helmet. The crashing blow had Ian on his knees. Instinctively he grappled. He and the guard banged and thumped to the bottom of the stairs. When Ian’s head cleared, he found himself on top of the guard who now had a broken neck.
Ian managed to lift the body and staggered up the stairs, head throbbing. Once back in the parking garage, he tried his comm. No luck. He dumped the body behind a car and went in search of the Lieutenant, finding him parked in an alley across the street.
Lieutenant Stanton and two of his men crept back into the garage and retrieved the body. By the time they reached the floater with their burden, Ian’s head had stopped ringing. It was a short trip to the temporary command post that had been set up in the back room of a nearby police precinct.
Once inside, Ian gingerly removed his helmet. No dents—thank God! What a time he’d have explaining how he’d damaged equipment worth more than he was. The only casualty he could see was his ghillies. A large tear. Have to get an electronics expert to stitch them up, since there were a lot of small metallic threads woven throughout the fabric.
Thirty minutes later the room felt smaller as Lieutenants Stanton and Carver gathered their squad leaders around a holographic map showing the immediate neighborhood of the rebel hideout.
“We’ll start our briefing as soon as—ah, here they are,” Stanton said when Brita and Sergeant First Class Nance hurried in.
“We’ve discovered the rebel headquarters for Richland,” he said. “We haven’t told anyone outside of our two platoons and Colonel Grayson. Don’t want to chance a leak. We’re on a tight schedule to come up with an ops plan, so I’d like Corporal Shannon to tell you what he found.”
“We tracked some gooners, rebels, to the basement of this shopping center,” he said. “I went in and pulled a soft recon. That means I didn’t let them know I was there.” Heads nodded in understanding.
“They have a command-and-control center with enough commo gear to stay in touch with several units simultaneously. Besides UHF and VHF, which are both directional to cut down on our chance of locating them, they have ultra low band and line-of-sight laser comm capabililty. In other words, just as good as what we have.”
He sketched a floor plan of what he’d seen on a blank piece of paper. “Three doors lead off the center. This one goes to a storage room with enough firepower to put a hurt on a company of regulars if in the right hands.” He continued to draw.
“The next room holds twenty-four bunks and enough rations to supply everyone in there for a week.” Another room was sketched in.
“This is the largest room, and seemed to be a combination chow hall and rec room. I found escape tunnels in the first two rooms. There was another in the chow hall, but wasn’t able to explore it. Too many people in the room.” He sketched the escape tunnels, using a dotted line to depict them.
“Two of these back doors go to other basements. The one in the rec room probably goes to the main sewer line, which is only fifty meters away.” By now, he’d drawn a detailed map of the rebel’s HQ.
“Thank you, Corporal,” Stanton said. “The reason we’re on a tight timeline here is because one of the guards had to be killed. I’ve come up with a plan of action, but want your input.” He started drawing on Ian’s picture.
“Since there are several bolt holes, maybe even some we don’t know about, it would be hard to pull off a raid that would capture or kill all of them. Therefore, I propose we dump sleep gas down t
he front door of their rathole, then go in and collect all of them.” He looked up. “Questions?”
“Sir,” Brita said. “If the air flow is minimal, there’s a chance not all of them would get enough of a dose.”
“Hm. Good point. Any suggestions?”
“Yes, Sir,” Nance said. “Go to the cellars where those escape routes come out, set up fans to pull air that way. Then release the sleep gas through the front door, and it will be sucked through the entire place.”
“Top, get two large fans to those cellars. Irish, show him where. Can you do it in one hour? That’s when the canisters of gas arrive.”
“Will do, Sir,” SFC Nance said.
“How about jamming their commo, Lieutenant?” Brita asked. “That would make it less suspicious if no one heard from them for a few days. They’d blame it on the jamming.”
“Excellent. Lieutenant Carver, could you take care of that? I’d say start to jam just as we release the gas.” He scanned the map again. “Let’s discuss troop dispositions.”
By the time the canisters of gas arrived, all was in readiness. Blocking forces were placed, fans were manhandled into position, and the electronic jamming had just started. The rest of Brita’s fire team arrived. She volunteered them to place the canisters and turn on the gas.
Blade and J.C. trotted towards the entrance to the garage, a forty kilo cylinder of gas between them. Pointy and Ian followed with the second. At one meter long, they weren’t the easiest things to carry, especially at a fast trot.
They entered the underground garage with Brita in front to provide security. Once at the stairwell door, Brita propped it open and went in first. After a few seconds delay she signaled an all clear, and they proceeded to the bottom of the stairs. Hoses were slipped under the door, and attached to each canister.
“Engaging now,” whispered Brita on the tac net as the valves were twisted open. All but Brita retreated to the top of the steps. She stayed on the first landing to ensure no one tried to come out the door. Five minutes later the tanks were empty. They waited an additional fifteen minutes, and entered the rebel’s headquarters, each double-checking their protective masks to make sure they were sealed.
Sleeping forms were everywhere, slumped at desks and work areas. They passed through the comm center, and J.C. turned off all the radios. Every room was the same, with unconscious bodies.
“All clear, Lieutenant,” Brita commed. “You can collect your trophies.”
After the last unconscious body was removed, Lieutenant Carver directed removal of weapons and ammunition. Ian watched for a minute, an idea forming in his mind. He went in search of Lieutenant Stanton, who sat in the command center with an armful of papers.
“Sir, could I talk to you?” Ian asked.
“Sure, Irish. I think we’re caught up for the moment.” He laid the papers down, and stretched.
“I’ve got a wild idea. Why don’t we set up a rat trap?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why not leave this all set up, and see how many more wander in over the next few days?”
Lieutenant Stanton’s face got a bemused look, and he stared into space. A minute passed. Two.
Ian shuffled his feet nervously. “I know it’s a harebrained idea, Sir. Just thought I should bring it up. Sorry to trouble you…”
Lieutenant Stanton leaped to his feet. “Ian, that’s a fantastic idea. Sergeant Nance! Lieutenant Carver! Get your asses in here.”
They rushed into the room looking for the disaster that had set the Lieutenant off. He waved his arms at them. “Sit, sit. Irish has come up with a wonderful idea. We need to see if it’s feasible, and if it is, we can put an even bigger dent in the rebels operations here in Richland.”
STAR’S END: RICHLAND (Day +54):
Ian groaned as he rolled over. Christ, what a head. Forgot to take his sober-up pills last night. He reached for the floor and gave it a gentle pat. Yup, still there. He sat up, slow and deliberate in his movements. Three days off in a row was pure heaven. Spending each night in the NCO club had been made even sweeter when it was learned the Mayor of Richland picked up their tab as way of thanks for saving his bacon.
He padded to the showers, one already on full blast. Through the steam and water, Ian saw a sight even more pitiful than him. Pointy hung onto one of the shower nozzles with both hands, while it blasted him with steaming hot water. He’d probably fall if he let go.
Ian turned on a shower and let the torrents of heated water rouse him from his torpid state. His head still throbbed, but everything else started waking up. After five minutes of near-scalding water, he felt he might survive.
“C’mon, Pointy. We’ve gotta get our act together by this afternoon. Franny’s flying in to give us a briefing.” He moved more briskly from the shower than when he’d entered. Once he popped a couple morning after tabs, he’d be a new man.
That afternoon Ian and Pointy were topping off on coffee when Franny and Brita entered the mess hall. “Leave enough of that sludge for us, guys,” Franny said. “Anyone seen Blade and J.C.?”
“Right here, Sarge,” Blade said as they walked in.
“Gather round and I’ll pass on some wisdom, troops,” Franny said. “You were all recommended for a citation because of your work here in the city. I told them you’d rather have three days off, to which they quickly agreed. So now that you’ve had those three days, it’s time to earn your pay again.” He nodded his thanks as Blade handed him a cup of coffee.
“For your information, twelve more gooners wandered into the trap you guys cooked up. That makes a total of twenty-seven captured, and eighteen killed since your team came to town. Pretty good, even for LRS.” There were pleased smiles all around.
“But there’s always a downside when you do too good a job. You’re given even tougher ones.” Franny used his hand comp to call up a map of the region north of Richland. “The team up here is getting its ass run ragged. Too much territory to handle by themselves, even with quick response transport.”
“They’ve got lots of militia to help them. What’s the problem?” Brita asked.
“Too many things going on at once,” Franny said. “They’ll be conducting a sweep, when another incident occurs a hundred klicks away. By the time they’re able to respond, it’s too late to be effective. Plus, we think there are some Alliance sniper teams in this area. They’ve seen several atrocities similar to the one Pointy and Irish found at that sniper’s nest.”
He pointed at the map. “Brita, we want your team to cover the eastern portion of this region. Two companies of militia are in the area, plus a hundred millimeter mortar platoon in the town of Tosvelt, which is centered in your area of operations. Major Darius is your point of contact with them. He’s worked pretty well with our forces in the south.”
“What’ll we get to transport us around?” Brita asked.
“Two more shuttles will be available. Unfortunately, only one of them is an attack shuttle. The other’s a transport,” Franny said with a shrug.
“I’ll put you in the center of where the heaviest sniper activity has taken place. I’d recommend splitting into two sniper teams, and use the militia to spook the gooners. Kind of like driving tigers to the hunter.”
“I like that,” J.C. said. “Tiger huntin’. Sounds like fun.”
“Only if you win,” Brita said. “Remember, these tigers have sharp claws.”
* * *
Ian stared bleakly at the burnt-out shell of a farmhouse he and Pointy approached. A squad of militia sifted through the remains. Three days on patrol, and this was the only thing to show for it.
As they neared what was left of the house, the squad leader turned to them. “You the scouts?”
“Roger that,” Ian said. “What’s it look like?”
The squad leader kicked at burnt debris, a morose look on his face. “Some goddamned animals paid a visit to these folks,” he said. “They got treated pretty rough before they were killed.”
Ian grimaced, he and Pointy exchanging glances. “Yeah, I can imagine. Any sign of how many did this?”
“Looks like two of them. We’ve been seeing more and more of this. You’d think the locals would evacuate into the towns nearby, but they’re too independent for their own good out here in the boonies.”
“Thanks, Sarge. We’ll see what we can scare up in the way of tracks. We’ll get hold of you on Tac 2 frequency if we need you.”
The Sergeant’s face was like a block of stone when he looked toward two blanket-covered forms recovered from the ashes. “You locate the pukes who did this, and I can guarantee you all the help you’ll need, fast as you want it.”
Pointy glanced back when they moved on. “I do believe we’ve got ourselves some motivated troopies helping us, Irish.”
“Hope so. I have a feeling we’ll need all the help we can get on this jaunt. If these are Alliance snipers, they’ve got the same level of training we do.”
“Yeh, but none of ’em has a bionic brain for a sidekick,” Pointy said with a grin.
Ian slowed to a stop, looking thoughtful. “Y’know, you’re right. We should be using our heads to find these guys. Come on,” he said, jogging towards the nearby barn.
Once inside, he keyed a map of the area onto his face shield. “Let’s see. We’re here, and ten klicks west are Blade and J.C. There’ve been two other farms burnt out, both to the west. Where would I go next if I wanted another hideout?” His eyes drifted across the map and touched on three other farms: one south, one southeast and one north.
There was the unmistakable sound of a bullet hitting flesh outside, followed by a burst of fire and shouts. Ian and Pointy dove to the wall, and peered through cracks in its lower surface. Ten meters away a soldier kicked his last. Head shots did that sometimes. Even though dead, the poor guy still jerked and jumped for several seconds.
“Which direction did the shot come from?” Ian shouted.
“From the south,” the Sergeant bellowed.
“Get your men under better cover and wait until dark,” Ian ordered. “We’ll go get that sonofabitch for you.”