by V J Kavanagh
A five-metre high concrete wall enclosed MP 14’s hollow rectangle of buildings, creating an arm-span wide maintenance corridor. Thick metal grills sloped up from the wall and closed off the top. MP 14’s only entrance tunnelled through the eastern wall. A pair of armoured gates opened into a kill zone, hemmed in on all sides by sabre-toothed road blockers.
He turned into the docking area of PB 2’s loading bay. Two Defenders guarded one of the six white roller doors. Like everyone in Force 3, they wore grey urban protector suits and open helmets. No one had lowered their visors; they had a life threatening habit of steaming up.
Opposite PB 2 was a vacant parking lot, the only break in the two rows of buildings that straddled the apron. He’d covered this logical assault point. Behind the door of loading bay four stood an MLC Mark IV, a magnetic-link coil gun, capable of firing six hundred titanium tipped flechettes a minute.
These two Defenders were the lure, the MLC, the noose.
He swung back towards the apron and raised his head. High above, two crouched Defenders faced each other, talking. Stinging rain added to Dee’s irritation, ‘Hey! You wanna take a trip to DC 1!’
The mere mention of the notorious one-way Detention Centre had the desired effect; they scrambled to their feet and stood rigid. ‘No, sir!’ ‘Sorry, sir!’
Dee continued to stare, silence would torment more than harsh words. He jolted, the right-hand Defender exploded in a ball of red mist. Dee dived towards the sanctuary of the wall and spun around. Ragged body parts splattered onto the apron. A helmet thudded a metre from his boot and rolled a crimson trail across black glass.
‘COMNET, Alpha one. Sitrep over!’ His gaze passed over the butcher’s off-cuts while his helmet strap’s inductive mike carried his voice across the apron to the Communication Network hub in AB 2.
‘COMNET. Multiple contacts sector north. APBs one and three neutralised, APB two damaged. Charlie sierra four, five and seven report casualties over.’
‘Alpha one. Wait out.’
Dee chewed on his bottom lip and stared at the decapitated helmet. Three APBs faced the river, beyond that; a dense camouflage canopy sloped up a gentle gradient. He’d covered that, five Prefects patrolled the forest.
Hugging the wall, he moved right, ‘COMNET, Alpha one. Sitrep papa romeos sector north over.’
‘COMNET. Sector north papa romeos offline over.’
‘Alpha one. Roger out.’ Dee bared his teeth. Dumb Prefects. He jumped up, ran to the fixed ladder of Production Building 1 and began the climb.
By the time he reached the top, he’d lost count of the number of rungs.
The size of a football field, PB 1’s metallic roof consisted of six large corrugations running towards the river. He found two Defenders squatted in the gutter of the second valley, huddled over an MCD.
He knelt beside them and shouted over the incessant rain spatter, ‘Anything?’
The Defender holding the MCD shook his head, ‘No, sir.’ He offered Dee the MCD, ‘We’ve got two Spotters over the forest, but whoever’s in there must have shielding.’
Dee drew a hand across his dripping face. Prefects offline, shielding. Who’s attacking us?
He took hold of the MCD. The self-wiping screen showed an aerial view of the forest and cycled through a series of overlays, infrared, acoustic and biofield. He squinted up into the rain-laden sky. Shaped like a trash can lid, the Spotters couldn’t be seen or heard, not by humans anyhow.
He handed the MCD back. ‘Keep on it.’
Dee climbed down from the roof and sprinted across the apron to AB 2. He’d set up COMNET in the old telecoms room on the ground floor. AB 2 hadn’t been used for months, none of the buildings had.
He burst into the windowless room and tore off his helmet. To his left, a lanky Gold COMTECH bolted to attention. Two black bars on the Lieutenant’s puffed-out chest put him in charge; his youth and shiny new boots marked him as a goldtop. In the middle of the dimmed room, two operators stared at op screens. The COMTECH’s protector-plates lay on the floor to the right. Dee scratched his buzz cut, as did their machine pistols.
He strode forward, his helmet clattering down into an empty plastic chair, his glare ripping into the LT. ‘Sitrep!’
‘No change, sir. Still taking fire from the opposing riverbank. All other sectors quiet.’
‘Whatta ‘bout Scythes. Can we get a Whisper in from somewhere?’
The LT leant over the female COMTECH, ‘Check birds in range configured for ground clearance.’ Moments later, the LT turned to Dee. ‘Affirmative, sir. ETA six minutes.’
Dee relaxed, ‘Roger that.’ The Scythe’s spinning laser cords could cut a four-metre swathe through concrete, or forest. He gripped the male COMTECH’s seat back and stared down at the screen, ‘There’s no other movement?’
In his periphery, the LT shook his head, ‘No, sir, all Spotter screens are empty.’
‘Something ain’t right. Casualties?’
The LT complied, ‘MEDTECHs report ten killed, no wounded.’
Dee needed to find the enemy; ten-nil was not a medal winning score.
The female operator to his left leant forward, ‘Sir?’
He and the LT turned towards the screen; LT spoke first, ‘What is it?’
The operator’s screen carried four separate displays, on the left-hand side of each quadrant, a vertical bar provided data from the Spotter craft, including meteorological.
‘Sir, spotters five and six in sector south are both showing precipitation.’
The LT’s face pinched, ‘Well?’
‘Well, sir. They’re the only two that are.’
Dee leant in. ‘Move ‘em.’
The operator moved an index finger around the raised circle on her command pad. The picture remained unchanged.
‘Try again.’
‘No go, sir.’
Dee spun, grabbed the LT’s scrawny right arm and squeezed, hard. ‘You idiot, they’ve acquired the Spotters.’
The LT grimaced, ‘I-I don’t understand.’
Dee released his grip and narrowed his eyes, ‘When did you last move five and six?’
The LT rubbed his arm and stepped back. ‘We didn’t, sir. You told us to watch the gap in sector south. If we’d moved them we might have missed something.’
Dee wasn’t as fast as Bo, but he was fast enough. The plasma ball hit the LT’s rank insignia, his shocked expression bursting into sharp relief when the electric-blue globe exploded, swaddling his body in its debilitating tendrils.
The frizzled LT slumped to the floor, twitching, his stupefied gawp fixed on the ceiling. Dee holstered the Cogent and crouched down next to him. The smell of burnt hair failed to mask the emptying bowels. At least he’s not an AH. In a dark corner of his mind, the spectre of betrayal had begun to take shape. He picked up the limp wrist; the LT’s MPS displayed an amber biomed warning. Dee let the wrist fall, rolled the LT onto his right side, and stood. ‘When he’s cleaned up, tell him he’s demoted to operator second class.’
Dee’s eyes darted between the bewildered looking COMTECHs, ‘Who’s next in command?’ The woman with short dark hair and a combat-ready expression stood up. ‘I am, sir, COMTECH First Class Anderson.’
His mouth stretched into a flat smile. ‘Well, Anderson, you’re Lieutenant now. Take command and start by rotating the Spotter’s frequencies.’
‘Yes, sir!’
The tiles beneath their feet shuddered, equipment rattled.
Dee dashed for his helmet. ‘Sitrep!’
Anderson’s voice pitched high, but clear, ‘Explosion reported in sector south, no eyes available.’
Dee twisted the MPS selector. ‘NETALL, Alpha one. Engage enemy on sight, wait out.’ He raced back and stood behind Anderson, ‘Drop eyes five and six, bring in three from sector west.’
The male COMTECH to his right spoke, ‘Sir, charlie sierra five, six, and seven report Halos, ADRs attempting t
o intercept.’
Dee gnashed his teeth. That’s Cat A air tech. ‘Get me CONSEC Command.’
Anderson’s voice cut in, ‘Eyes three up, sir.’
He glanced down, ‘Eyes three only.’ The quadruple display became one. He leaned in, blinking in disbelief. To the right of the old parking lot, Administrative Building 3 had gone, replaced by a pile of twisted metal and shattered concrete.
His reserve had been in AB 3.
Dee counted at least ten people in black coveralls and balaclavas entering the breach and heading west into the maintenance corridor. Several shouldered bulky backpacks.
His eyes flicked right, two Defenders slumped against the red splattered roller door of PB 2.
The male COMTECH spoke flatly, ‘Roger charlie sierra seven, wait out.’ He turned his worried eyes on Dee, ‘Sir, I can’t raise Command. Charlie sierra seven report heavy casualties, APB neutralised, they’re requesting permission to fallback.’
Dee pointed at the male operator’s display. ‘Bring up eyes one.’ He chewed his bottom lip. Black coveralls streamed across the weir causeway. CONSEC Squad 7’s area of responsibility. He spun back to Anderson, ‘Where’s that Whisper?’
Anderson’s right hand tapped. A digital counter appeared in the bottom right corner of her display, ‘ETA one minute.’
Dee’s concern focused on the view from Spotter 3, the black coveralls swarmed along the maintenance corridor. His damp gloves squeaked under balled fists; they were in defilade. I should have put Defenders on the AB roofs.
‘Patch me into the Whisper.’
The male operator’s anxiety cut in, ‘Sir, charlie sierra seven?’
Dee placed his hand on the male operator’s shoulder and checked the nametag. ‘It’s okay, Gibson. Tell ‘em to keep down, air strike coming in.’
Anderson unclipped her stick mike and handed it to Dee. ‘Call sign is echo four.’
‘Echo four, alpha one. South of target grid is weir, clear causeway of hostiles, over.’
‘Echo four. Roger, out.’
Dee handed back the mike and pointed at her display, ‘Continue to track hostiles and relay positions.’ He swivelled right. ‘Pull back eyes one and expand vertical.’
Gibson stroked his command pad. The display changed, the mud coloured river flowed untidily towards the weir. On the right stood the concrete lock and on the left a large single storey building, in-between, the Resistance held the causeway.
Gibson’s stare remained fixed on the screen, ‘Echo four’s acquired multiple targets.’
The Whisper dropped into view two hundred metres from the weir. Its dog-bone shaped fuselage pitched down, revealing the four massive vortex engines.
An orange fireball ripped apart its starboard flank.
Dee watched wide-eyed as a large smouldering chunk of the Whisper fell towards the river. Gibson tapped his fingers and made the connection; the room filled with the blaring cacophony of catastrophic failure. Echo Four tilted right, the tangled mess of its forward starboard engine spewing liquid smoke. It lurched left into the black cloud, its three remaining engines whipping the smoke into charcoal spirals.
A woman’s voice silenced the alarms. ‘Alpha one, echo four. Eagle one gone, eagle two punching out, good luck, out.’
The Whisper had almost rolled onto its side when the boxy ejection pod rocketed from the cockpit. It flew beyond the edge of the viewscreen, trailing the unopened canopy behind it.
Gibson’s chair back creaked under Dee’s grip, ‘Send two men from charlie sierra seven to dig out the pilot, pull the rest back.’ He fixed his helmet and swung to Anderson. ‘Pull everyone on the ground back to romeo victor six; I’m heading over there. Tell charlie sierra three to cover me and get me Command.’
‘Yes, sir. Er, what about us, sir?’
Dee copied one of Steve’s paternal smiles. ‘If they knew you were here they would have come knocking by now.’ He flicked his head towards their weapons, ‘Put your plates in and keep your weapons close. If things get itchy I’ll come for you.’
He dashed to the door and peeked out. ‘Sir!’ Dee sighed up at the corridor ceiling. No wonder Gibson’s comms. ‘What?’
‘Unable to reach anyone from charlie sierra seven, sir.’
Dee closed the door behind him and left.
Cogent drawn, he slipped out of AB 2 and edged along the front of the admin buildings to the littered parking lot. He turned right and ignoring the carnage to his left, darted through the ragged hole in the wall and into the forest.
Rendezvous 6 was located behind a redundant garage block on the east side, directly opposite the entrance to MP 14.
Dee weaved through the trees, the tip of his Cogent traversing the gaps. ‘COMNET, alpha one. Identify charlie sierra at romeo victor six and tell ‘em I’m coming in from the south east, over.’
‘COMNET. Wilco, out.’
At the tree line, Dee stopped under the soggy umbrella of a pine tree. Across an expanse of tangled brown grass and an even larger expanse of crumbling asphalt stood the garage block. Shots crackled and whined through a veil of rain.
Dee crouched and leapt out from under the branches. To his left, a line of thick evergreen shrubs covered his route to the road. Then he was in the open, exposed. He twisted right, his boots tearing up the flaky asphalt. A Defender appeared at the corner, his rifle spouting yellow flashes. Dee dived, taking the impact on his protector-plates. His left calf burned, pain seared up into his thigh — he’d pulled a muscle.
He jumped to his feet and slapped the nearest Defender’s shoulder plate, ‘Thanks.’
Nine Defenders crouched against the concrete wall. Two more hugged the corners and three lay on weed-infested brick paving. Rain splashed off their body bags.
Dee looked up at the flat roof six metres above. ‘We got any firecrackers?’
The Defender with the grenade launcher stood. ‘I have, sir, but we haven’t been able to get the range.’ He nodded at the corpses. ‘We have tried.’
Dee glanced at the rain glistened body bags, ‘More than one way to skin a Drone.’ He raised his left wrist. ‘COMNET, alpha one. Bring eyes one over the riverbank north of my position and patch me in, over.’
‘COMNET. Wilco, out.’
Dee twisted his right arm and touched the MCD screen. Nine pairs of black coveralls dotted the muddy riverbank. He tapped the range finder icon and pointed the MCD at the grenade launcher. ‘Take ‘em out.’
The Defender stepped back, raised the launcher and fired.
Dee’s gaze dived to his MCD. The 80mm SR 56 had a dual thermobaric charge. It knew where to go, and when to detonate.
A yellow flash filled the screen and a dull crump preceded the ferocious boom. The ground shook, the garage roller doors rattled and scalding air blasted past.
He blinked at the screen. A charcoal laden cloud broke apart and drifted out across the brown river. Wisps of white smoke rose from the blackened riverbank; there was nothing else.
14:07 SAT 04:11:2119
Intra Zone, Seine-et-Marne, France, Sector 2
The SAR 21 reconnaissance satellite moved innocuously amongst the debris of space. It was one of several owned by Ciel Noir, an aerospace subsidiary of Thibeauchet Technologie. Francois’s sigma authorisation had ensured its arrival over central Europe had bypassed INC, as had the encrypted downlink to Château Castiglione.
He rested his chin on steepled fingers, his attention fixed on the MCD’s overhead view of MP 14. Triangles identified his soldiers, circles, CONSEC. He turned his head. ‘What do you see?’
Morton stared straight ahead. ‘The same as you. Captain Brandleson was a fool to put all those men in one building.’
Francois shrugged, ‘He is not an Academy officer, and that is good fortune for us n'est-ce pas?’ He tapped the MCD. ‘Marshal Kellermann.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Twelve Defenders move west behind the south buildings.’
‘Are the artificials ready?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Remember your priority is to destroy the black Prefects.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The HPU Francois had taken from Jannae had arrived at Thibeauchet Technologie’s laboratory in Toulouse two days before. Unfortunately, his scientists had yet to revive it. Without a remote Controller for the Prefects, the impératif was their destruction. He had told Marshal Kellermann of his sister’s tragic death. SIS had received the blame for Jannae, as they would Gerhard’s vengeance. A cruel motivator, but a necessary one.
Two triangles moved towards the second administration building. He zoomed in. They were not going to intercept the Defenders; they were going to investigate the building that Dee had visited. Francois needed to find their centre of communications. Without eyes, a soldier is blind, without communications, an army is blind.
His fingers drummed the screen, cycling through a series of images. This was not the only operation he commanded.
To take control of Provenance required his army to be aboard. A global insurrection would fuel the Council’s paranoia and provide the excuse SIS needed.
His head snapped towards the door. ‘Oui.’
‘It’s Steve.’
Francois stood, swiped the MCD screen, and walked to the door.
‘Hello, Steve, how are you?’
Steve rolled his shoulder, ‘I think the painkillers are wearing off. Have you heard from Dee?’
‘No.’
Francois closed the door and returned to his seat. Steve had chosen to sit opposite Morton, and ignore him. Francois knew what was coming next. Steve did care too much.
‘It’s your command, but don’t you think you should check up on him.’
Francois skewed his head. ‘I was going to, but I was interrupted.’
‘Sorry.’
Francois tapped the MCD.
‘This ain’t a good time, Francois.’
‘I call to ask if all is well. Steve is here with me.’