by Danny Loomis
“You got it, Scout,” the squad leader shouted.
“C’mon, Pointy. Put on your ghillies and let’s go tiger hunting.” Pointy was the only one with a workable set of ghillies. Ian had to leave his to be repaired, and no replacements available.
They eased through a window that faced away from the sniper, scurried to the edge of the cultivated fields and into the trees. Once they gained enough altitude on the northern ridge line, they eyeballed the opposite slope for signs of life. Thirty minutes later their patience was rewarded by a muted flash of light directly south and two-thirds of the way up the opposite ridge line.
“I think they’re moving south,” Pointy said. “Wanna follow?”
“No. I’d rather get ahead, so we can try and set an ambush. Let’s head for that farmhouse southeast of here.”
“In that case let me lead,” Pointy said. “I can run interference for you in my ghillies. Less chance of runnin’ into an ambush.” With that, they began to trot down a game trail that trended to the southeast.
Two hours later they found a dirt road which led to the farmstead. Pointy followed the road while Ian hung back in the tree line. Fifteen minutes passed.
“It’s all clear. No one home.” Relieved, Ian moved toward the farm.
Signs of abandonment made the farmstead look shabby. Weeds had taken over the small garden plot, and the barn door hung by one hinge. Ian backed off a hundred meters to the south side, which gave him a clear view of the house and barn. Before joining him, Pointy made a circuit and planted sensors in a 360 degree circle around them.
As Pointy settled in Ian said, “Let’s go to a two hours on and two off routine. I’ll go first. OK?”
Pointy grunted an affirmative, rolled onto his side and was soon asleep. A true soldier, thought Ian. He could sleep anywhere, anytime. He re-focused onto the sensor net and ensured it would automatically alarm if anything came around. Then he probed the tac net, using a gentle touch. He’d noticed the satellites were a little more sensitive to someone trying to hack in, even if you had the correct passwords. Must be the extra work they’d done on the new ones to protect them from an electromagnetic pulse. At least no more had been knocked off-line by the gooners.
Both Ian and Pointy had pulled two shifts each when Ian was alerted shortly after midnight. Not by their electronic sentries, but while he was casting his digital senses further afield. The latest satellite information had just been downloaded when he decided to take a look at the other farmstead six kilometers to their west. He zeroed in and was startled by the intensity of the IR scan, which showed smoke from the chimney, and several lights had been left on in the barn and house. He tapped Pointy on the shoulder, waking him.
“I think they’ve gone to the other farmstead.”
In seconds they were on the move. They paused long enough to pick up their sensors, and loped down a rutted trail that connected the two farms.
They came to the last rise before they could see the farm, dropped to all fours and moved to the top. It looked quiet in the house, but all the lights were still on, to include those in the barn.
“Pointy,” Ian whispered on the com, “Go to within a hundred feet of the house. I’ll circle the barn, check it out, and come up on the back side of the house. If there’s no action by then, we’ll decide what to do from there.” Pointy gestured an affirmative, and crawled off.
Ian had just reached the far side of the house when Pointy hissed a warning. “Someone comin’ out the front.”
A tense minute went by. There was a shout, and the hum of a needler on full auto.
“I was spotted, Irish. One down, can’t see the other.” Just then a figure burst out the rear of the house. Ian put a full burst into the man’s legs, and he crashed to the ground.
“One more came out the back. He’s out of the fight. You go in the front, I’ll go in the back two counts after,” Ian said.
Once both were inside Pointy said, “I’m going upstairs. You’ve got down here.”
Ian entered each room with caution, alert for more rebels. In the living room a man and woman in their mid-thirties were bound and gagged in separate chairs, signs of torture on the man’s upper body and arms, but both still alive. He ignored them for the moment, checked the rest of the rooms, finding nothing. Once back in the living room, he motioned for silence and released the couple. There were deep bruises on the woman’s face and upper arms. He was careful untying her as he had been with the man. In a low whisper, he asked, “How many of them were there?”
The woman held up two fingers. “My son and daughter—they’re hiding upstairs in the attic,” she whispered. At once Ian was on the comm to warn Pointy. Too late. A crashing thump sounded, and a body fell down the stairs. “Goddam! That hurt,” Pointy growled. “Hey, Irish, there’s two kids up here.”
“Yeah, and it sounds like they won.”
By now Ian had the couple released. While he performed first aid on the man, his wife limped into the other room to gather up her children.
It was an hour later, and the Anderson’s were almost over the shock of their unexpected guests. The wounded prisoner had been treated and was bound to a chair on the back porch. William Anderson had recovered enough to talk non-stop since his last cup of coffee.
“I will be the first to admit it, boys, I didn’t hold any love in my heart for the government. In fact my wife and I gave passive support to the Jeffersonians and their action group, the Sons of Freedom, whenever we could. But this. My God, to treat your own people and friends like this. We would have been killed and worse, if it hadn’t been for you two.” His wife nodded vigorously at this last statement.
“I’ve got to be honest with you folks,” Ian said. “When we searched the two soldiers who did this, it was apparent they weren’t your native grown rebels. They’re Alliance commandos.” The Andersons looked shocked.
“What in the world are they doing here? Is it an invasion? My God, we have enough troubles with our own bad boys, now we get them from the Alliance?”
Ian made soothing motions. “The rebels invited the Alliance to send in some troops for training purposes. It seems they’ve gotten out of hand. I don’t think your rebels would want them to kill the people they’re trying to win over to their side.”
The two children, Ilsa age eight and Michael, ten years old, were now relaxed enough they’d gone to sleep on the couch. Pointy was in between them, one on each arm, sound asleep as they were.
Lissa Anderson smiled fondly at all three sleeping forms. “Mr. Pointy took it so well when the children attacked him. Lucky he had that helmet on, or they might have brained him with their clubs.” She rubbed her arms, and winced.
“Ma’am, are you sure you don’t want something for the pain?” Ian asked. “The medics should be here shortly, but until then there’s no need to suffer.”
“Thank you, Mr. Irish. You are a gentleman. No, I wish to feel this pain to help remind me I’m still alive. If you two hadn’t come when you did, my Will would be dead by now.” She leaned against her husband and sniffled, gratefully accepting a napkin from her husband.
Ian cocked his head, hearing a report from the shuttle pilot who had just sighted the farm. “Company’s coming, folks. A doctor’s on board to treat you, and a guard detail. These guards volunteered to keep an eye on things around here. They were at the farmstead ten kilometers to your north. We got there too late to help that family.”
Mr. Anderson shook his head in sorrow. “We didn’t know the Norbladt’s very well. They kept to themselves even more than we did. At least they didn’t have any children to suffer through this kind of madness.”
Once the medical team arrived, things got busy for awhile. Finally Ian and Pointy eased themselves outside. The squad leader they’d met yesterday was at the door, waiting for them.
“I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m Sergeant Dykstra. Those two guys you shot, they the ones from yesterday?”
“That’s right,” Ian said. �
��I’m Irish and the ugly one here is Pointy. And before you ask, the live one has been claimed by Intelligence. They should be here any time. I planned on giving him to you guys. Sorry.”
“At least you got ’em, just like you promised.” He stuck out his hand. “We owe you two. If ever you need help, just call for Third Battalion’s Charlie Company.” With that, he was gone into the remains of the night.
Ian stared after Sergeant Dykstra for a long moment. “How’d that gooner spot you?” he asked, turning to Pointy.
“With these.” Pointy handed him a weird shaped set of binoculars, two eyepieces and one lens. “He came out the front door and took a leak. Put these on and looked around. Jumped like a scalded cat when he saw me. Almost got his pistol out before I shot him. Fastest draw I ever did see.”
Ian fingered the binoculars. They looked like an exotic style of spotting scope. “Get your ghillie suit out of your rucksack and turn ’em on, will you?” Pointy held them up, and Ian sighted through the binoculars. The ghillies were bright as if painted neon.
“Jesus! I gotta let our platoon know about this,” Ian said. He keyed the command net and used his bio link to trace SFC Boudreau’s whereabouts, flashing him a priority alert. Within seconds he had him on the comm.
“Eagle One, this is Bravo Two. We just ran across some weird electronic hardware that lets the gooners spot us when we’re in our ghillies.”
“Say again, Bravo Two?”
“Pointy and I have a new style of detector we took off a gooner. It sees electronic output from equipment like our ghillies. Anyone who wears a suit stands out like an illuminated target.”
“Got it, Bravo Two. We’ll put the word out ASAP. It looks like an intel type is headed your way, so make sure and give that equipment to him. Good work. Out.”
Pointy stuffed the ghillies into his ruck, a disgusted look on his face. “Well, shit. There went the biggest advantage we had over the bad guys.”
“C’mon,” Ian said. “Mrs. Anderson said she’d make us breakfast pretty soon. Something called cornbread pancakes.”
When they neared the kitchen door, Pointy appreciatively sniffed the warm smell of cornbread and frying bacon that filled the air. “Whatever they are, I’ll eat my weight in ’em if they taste like they smell.”
STAR’S END: PHOENIX – WORLD CAPITOL (Day +60)
Senator Deville threw down the list of atrocities, anger curdling his stomach. Did Colonel Racine know what his actions had done? Damn the man! His years spent cultivating the westerners’ desire for freedom from the east was in jeopardy. At first, attacks on the selected targets were met with concern from the populace, but tended to bolster the cause of the Jeffersonians.
Then the killings started. Public outrage was building. It was hard to believe. Colonel Racine seemed to have a mirror image of his beliefs. These cold blooded attacks on a population base that tended to support the Jeffersonians was unconscionable.
His intercom buzzed. “Sir, Mr. Dupont is here to see you. Shall I send him in?”
He looked at his watch in surprise. Eleven o’clock already. “Of course, Mary. And see we’re not disturbed.”
“Richard, good to see you,” Senator Deville said when the President’s ex-Chief of Staff entered. “Have a seat. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”
Barely suppressed anger was apparent in Richard’s face and stance. “That we have. I’m not happy at what’s going on around Richland. A few attacks on political and economic targets I could see. But the torture and killing of innocents is too much.”
Jean nodded vigorously. “I agree, Richard. I’ve sent a message to Colonel Racine. He’s still our military coordinator in the west. I don’t know why he’d do this. He seemed to share our political views.”
“Another concern I have is our base on the south continent. Did you send additional forces there?”
Senator Deville felt a cold knot form in his middle. “No, but the Alliance liaison, Major DeVries, went there to organize his training cadre and set up the equipment that landed on south continent. Do you suppose…”
“I told you at the beginning I didn’t trust the Alliance, Jean. Give those bastards too free a hand and who knows what could happen?” He shifted uncomfortably. “We had a scheduled supply transport call in just as it landed at Camp Three, then nothing. How secure is the base?”
Deville nervously rubbed his stomach which had begun to cramp. “We only have twenty permanent staff there. It wasn’t meant to be a fortress. With the number of Alliance shuttles that landed on the southern continent, he could have several hundred men there. It would be simple for him to take over the base.”
He thought a minute. “But to what end? Why would he risk our displeasure? Allying with us legitimizes his presence on our planet. Otherwise, he’s an invader.”
Dupont shrugged. “I don’t know what his intentions are, but if he’s taken over the base, we need to do something, and do it quick. The flow of refined pharmaceuticals hasn’t slowed, but the supply of our more esoteric drugs has fallen off dramatically in the past week.” Esoteric was a polite word for highly profitable illegal drugs, which the Dupont Corporation had unofficially grown for several years.
The chime of Deville’s secure line interrupted them. Irritated, he stabbed the receive button. “Yes?”
“Racine here. We only have a couple of minutes before this call can be traced, so we need to be brief.”
“Good point, Colonel. Why have you deviated from the list of targets I gave you?”
“None of those atrocities were done by my troops, Sir. Captain Vogel disappeared with his commandos, and immediately these attacks began. I have men out searching, with orders to kill them. We can’t allow such vileness to occur. It will stain us. Stain our cause.”
“You’re right. I’ll see what I can do to turn the situation to our ends.”
“The latest reports on the news may help us,” the Colonel said. “Night before last an Alliance commando was killed and one wounded as they were in the process of torturing a husband and wife. This morning they had a live interview with the victims. The east coast press should be getting this release momentarily. It was stated several times that it was Alliance soldiers who did this.”
“That’s a relief. One other thing, our base on the south continent has probably been seized by Major DeVries. Can you put together enough of a force to attack them?”
“No, Sir. We’re barely holding our own. These damnable Orion soldiers are better than we thought at counter-insurgency operations. They’ve whittled us down at a faster rate than expected.”
“Understood. We’ll handle it from here. Better end transmission now. Godspeed.”
He turned to Dupont. “Decision time, my friend. We can call in the military on this, or try and negotiate with Major DeVries. Since it’s your company’s property, and your, um, ‘exotic’ pharmaceuticals that would be put at risk, I’ll leave it up to you.”
Dupont hesitated. “I need more time. Let’s start with negotiations, and try the second option if it fails.”
“Who do you trust enough to handle the negotiations?”
“I’ll go down there myself next week.” Dupont stood. “The fewer involved the better. I’ll make it public knowledge I’m going to tour the camps on Vertland. That should make it harder for the Major to have me involved in an accident.” With a quick handshake he was gone.
Jean frowned in thought. The Confederation was already searching the south continent, mostly by air. It was only a matter of time before they dropped in on Camp Three. Perhaps he should cover himself on this one. He keyed his intercom.
“Mary, please connect me with Major Wood. I believe he’s stationed at Harrison Barracks here in Phoenix.”
Several minutes later, his intercom chimed. “Major Wood on the line, Sir.”
“Hello, Major, I’m sorry to trouble you. Something has come to my attention that you and I need to discuss. Could you come to my office tomorrow morning? Yes, eight would b
e fine. I’ll see you then.”
After disconnecting, Deville leaned back, fingers steepled. Yes, a contingency plan was in order to handle the problem at Camp Three. Absently he turned on his TV, and watched in sick fascination while the International News Network once more played the film they’d taken at the scene of the latest torture and mutilation, this time a family just to the north of Richland.
STAR’S END: RICHLAND (Day +60):
Having Major Whitaker conduct a briefing right after lunch was a mistake. Ian’s eyelids sank, and again he fought to keep them raised. What the Major talked about was interesting, but Ian had already scanned the sitrep through his bio link.
“Now if you will—ah—put on your helmets,” Major Whitaker droned, “we will proceed to tie this information in with—ah—locations as well as dispositions.”
Ian slipped his helmet on with relief. Since he’d already reviewed the map and knew the placement of militia units throughout the western seaboard, he tapped into a live update on satellite recon, which held more interest for him than what the Major briefed.
Idly he keyed in the last known positions of enemy snipers, to include the business he and Pointy had conducted three days ago. The program had a red circle around that position, showing they were deleted. He selected the satellite recon log for a day prior to the deleted signal and scrolled through it. Nothing. Wait, what were those small little pinpricks of light?
He jerked upright in surprise. Of course! That’s what he’d been trying to remember from several days before. He scrolled through several more satellite recon logs, far back as the week before. There, small flashes. He called up the sitrep for the same period of time, and overlaid the two maps. Wow.
The remainder of the briefing was a blur to Ian. He waited for Major Whitaker to finish. “…So as you can see, the infusion of—ah—two battalions of militia north of Richland helped in the sweeps being conducted. As of this morning, the efforts in that sector had—ah—resulted in the capture of twelve Jeffersonians, and the deaths of twenty more. We also neutralized two more sniper teams, thanks in great part to the local populace.”