by Danny Loomis
“That’s good. A morale booster. Well, the main reason I came over today was because the new sniper rifles are just coming off the production line. We brought twenty-one over so you could start familiarizing your ‘children’ with them. That okay?”
“Okay? You bet it’s okay!” Irish bounced to his feet in excitement. “We can start with them this afternoon.”
“fine. Let’s go over to the lunch wagon and get some chow. Don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. Oh, and by the way. Stuart and I are going to be meeting with the leader of a rival faction of Royalists and would like you along as part of the guard force. Need to convince him to join forces, or at least coordinate our efforts. It’s been a problem in the past, and has gotten more so since the Alliance arrived.”
Irish felt a breath of unease passing through him. “You two be careful. If the Legs found out…”
“Yes, Worrywart,” Brian said with a snicker. He sobered when they reached the chow line. “We plan on being more than careful. If the Legs try to ambush us, they might bite off more than they can chew.”
“Hope so.” He shook himself. “In the meantime, I’d better go get a look at our new toys.”
“After lunch.” Brian pushed him towards the nearest gathering of troops. “Right now, sit down with some of the Captain’s Children and relax.”
Once finished with lunch, Irish gathered the class around him. They were already clad in their camouflage. “Slight change of plans. We have just received the first shipment of our new sniper rifles. But before you get one issued, the old one has to be sparkly clean. So get your cleaning kits and start. You’ve got thirty minutes before I inspect you.”
Well within the time limit, the last person held up their rifle. “Finished, Sir.”
“Okay, form a line and let’s get started.” Irish took the the first rifle offered him and began tearing it down on a towel in front of him. “Barrel–good. Receiver the same.” He ran a white cloth around the inside of the magazine well. A thumb sized smudge showed on the cloth. “Oh, my. First rifle and there’s sludge on it.” He looked up. “Anyone else forget to clean the magazine area of your piece?” Almost all hands went up.
He gave a theatrical sigh. “Okay, let’s take another five minutes. Oh, and you just as well check the storage compartment in the butt of your toy since that’s the next place I’ll check.”
After fifteen minutes of inspecting, Irish looked up with a smile. “Very good. Okay, take your weapon over to that vehicle parked on the other side of the lunch wagon. Trade ‘em for a new piece, and report back here so we can not only clean them, but familiarize you with which end the bullet comes out of.”
Irish waited until everyone was finished cleaning their new weapon before disassembling the one he’d chosen. “When you’ve finished playing with your new friend, bring it over here and watch.”
Once everyone gathered, he swiftly assembled the rifle. “The beauty of this weapon is the simplicity of it. It still takes an eleven millimeter round with forty in the magazine, but it’s even simpler in design than the old one.” He took it apart rapidly. “Not only simple, but with the scope you’ve been furnished it can knock down a human at one thousand meters on a calm day. The main limitation is this scope doesn’t have every gadget in creation on it–only a rangefinder and windspeed indicator.”
A hand hesitantly crept up. “Did-did you say a thousand meters, Sir?”
“That’s right. A thousand.” He smiled. “And before you say ‘no way’ to yourself-I’d beat you bloody if you said it aloud-remember this. You were accepted into the training because you were already expert shots from all the hunting you’d done in your previous life as a civilian.” He gave a slow glance at all of them. “The only thing different, the animals you’ll now hunt can shoot back.”
He pulled out his hand comp. “Over the past several days, as you shot the rifle you just turned in, your scores improved significantly. In fact, I’ve been lying to you today about what your scores are. Every one of you has scored an unheard of ninety-nine percent or better at six hundred meters, and ninety-seven percent at eight hundred. I’ll bet you a drink at the local town’s pub that you’ll be shooting at least ninety-five percent at a thousand meters by next week. Any takers?”
Irish suddenly noticed they were all standing at attention, eyes filled with an unreadable emotion. He scrambled to his feet and walked among them, touching each one. “You, my children, will be the dagger we plunge into the heart of the present government. Now get on that firing line and make me proud!” He watched them hurry away, emotion threatening to overcome him.
* * *
Irish tried to look relaxed while they sped along at 70 kph on a highway towards the town of Harper’s Glen, 90 kilometers from their base. The internal combustion vehicle, called a van, held six of them. He and Brian were next to each other, with Stuart seated next to the driver. Two other vehicles trailed behind, with another eight Royalists.
Stuart glanced back at him. “Y’look a bit tense, Captain.”
“Never ridden in an internal combustion vehicle before,” he said, raising his voice over the sound of the wind whistling through the window the driver had left open.
“Ha. They can take some getting used to if you’ve been raised in the city, where they use transport that’s more on the modern side. But even though the engines are a bit noisy, these are the cheapest transportation we’ve developed so far.”
Brian tapped his shoulder. “How’d your trip back to the Erebus go? I know you brought back medical supplies, but any word from the Confederation on our other needs?”“There’ll be a corvette arriving within a couple weeks,” he said. “It’ll have the squad of LRS I requested, plus a couple weapons designs your manufacturers shouldn’t have any trouble copying. One for hand-held rocket launchers and one for grenade launchers. We’ve found both to be highly useful in a guerrilla warfare environment.” He raised a hand. “And before you ask, I didn’t get word about the corvette’s projected arrival until today. The Erebus sent us a message just minutes before we left for this meeting.”
Stuart looked back again. “We’ve been hearing about a large amount of traffic in near-space recently. Any word on what might be involved?”
Irish nodded. “That’s because they’re starting to move all the mine workers on the moon to the two asteroids being mined. My crew has been intercepting a lot of radio traffic about this. They said at least two freighters a day have been delivering equipment to the moon.”
He straightened his left leg, easing a cramp. “They’re working on a solution to the shrinking work force they’ve been getting from Eire. Can’t hire enough folks, so they plan on moving several thousand prisoners up there to take over mining on the moon. The equipment’s probably to streamline the operations so they don’t need as many skilled laborers there.”
Brian shook his head in disgust. “and there’s damn-all we can do about it at the moment.”
Irish glanced at him. “Any plans in the works to rescue the prisoners?”
“We’ve been working on it, but all our ideas need more people to accomplish what we’d like to do,” Brian said. “it’s only been since the Alliance arrived we’ve had an upsurge in recruitment.”
“Population’s been beaten down by the Legs for several years,” Stuart said. “The first time any group protested the fact the Legs hadn’t allowed a popular vote like they’d promised when they took over, it was squashed. Several hundred were put in prison, and the Legs controlled all the press. Made the Royalists look like criminals.”
“I have a faint memory of that. My folks sent me off-world right afterwards.” He looked out the window as they neared town. “What about this separate faction of Royalists? How’d they come about?”
Brian leaned forward, eyes searching the area. “You’ll have to wait on that story. We’re almost there.” He glanced at Irish. “Sure you don’t want to be at the meeting?”
“
No, sorry. My superiors would have my head on a platter if it looked like I was trying to interfere with internal politics. We agree that the Legs have to go, but the government that takes its place is up to you folks.”
“Which we appreciate,” Stuart said with a smile. “You can stay outside the conference room with Sergeant Mallin, our driver. There’ll be several dozen troops from both factions not too far from the pub, so don’t get worried if you see strangers carrying weapons nearby.”
“They better not be that noticeable,” Brian muttered. “We’re supposed to be having this meeting in secret. I’m still nervous about having so many troops around. Tough to keep a gathering quiet with this many involved.”
The vehicle stopped in front of Mack’s Pub and Grill near the center of Harper’s Glen, a town with a population just slightly over two thousand.
“Okay, showtime. Let’s go,” Stuart said, opening his door.
Irish leaned back in his chair, pretending to take another swallow of beer. He and Sergeant Mallin sat at a table next to a door leading into the back room where the meeting was in full progress, and getting noisier by the minute. Two guards from the other faction were at a table on the opposite side of the room.
He turned to Mallin. “Who picked this place? Seems pretty exposed for a meeting of this caliber.”
Mallin, a short man with dark hair shaved close to his head and face, shrugged. “Y’got me. I just take the boss where he wants to go.” He looked around and stood up. “Think I’ll give the other guards a call. See how they’re holding up.” He walked to the front of the pub and looked out the picture window, whispering on his comm.
A sudden disorientation had Irish clutching his chest. He was on the floor with needler drawn before he realized what he’d done. Mallin spun, weapon drawn, in time to catch three needles to his throat.
“It’s a trap! Warn everyone,” Irish shouted. He scrambled to his feet and rushed to the front window, ducking back when three vehicles screeched to a stop and disgorged over a dozen soldiers. Too late. More vehicles could be heard, plus at least two flitters.
The other guards in the room flung themselves on the floor under the front window as it shattered under the roaring fire coming from outside. Their machine pistols emitted a stuttering whine in counterpoint. The onrushing crowd outside went to the ground, several sprawling in death.
Irish fired three-shot bursts and backed to the conference room door. He hurried through in time to see Brian, Stuart and another figure slipping through a side door with their guards while a flood of Legs entered from the back. He switched to full auto and fired the entire magazine in a shrieking whine, knocking down those who entered. A quick sprint and he was through the side door, unlimbering his staff.
A narrow alleyway confronted him. Figures were just disappearing into the building across the way. Stepping back against the wall of the building, he fitted himself into a corner.
Two men rushed through the door he’d just left. He stepped forward and gave a double thrust of his staff. Both were on the ground and threshing. Seconds later three more exited, stopping to look down at the ones dying on the ground. Irish leaped into their midst, loosing a bone-chilling scream while slashing and spinning. Before their bodies hit the ground he was through the doorway into which Brian and Stuart’s group had disappeared.
Although only seconds had passed, it seemed nightmarishly long for Irish while providing rearguard for the ones ahead of him. More footsteps closing from behind and he once more spun and slashed, bringing two down. He came erect from his crouch, and staggered the first few steps onward. Couldn’t get away with this much longer.
The volume of firing peaked, and then died away. Dozens of shouting voices raised in a cacophony of noise, which also died away. An absence of enemy soldiers allowed him to catch up with the group he’d been defending, in a small home close to the outskirts of town.
Two men were gathered around Brian who was on his knees, holding Stuart in his arms. “Hang on, brother,” he whispered, tears running down his face. “Hang on. We’re safe now, help has arrived.”
One look at the bullet-riddled corpse that had been Stuart and he was on his knees next to Brian. He gently touched Brian on the shoulder. “Come on, man. Let loose so we can take care of him.”
Minutes later he exited the house, Brian leaning heavily on him. Irish had tardily discovered Brian had a shoulder wound that was sluggishly seeping blood. He’d managed to wrap a field dressing on the wound, but medical help was needed soon as possible, since it looked broken.
“Here they are,” a royalist soldier called over his shoulder while hurrying up to them. “I’m a medic. Anyone else hurt inside?”
Irish shook his head. “Brian caught one. Looks like his shoulder’s the only thing.” He helped ease him down, to lean against a nearby post. Several more soldiers arrived, concern in their voices when seeing Brian.
“Stuart’s in there,” he said, pointing. “Afraid he’s gone.” Shock registered on the faces of those who heard. They hurried inside. He sat beside Brian, rubbing his face tiredly. Damn fool stunt not wearing his full combat gear. Didn’t help much leaving it on his bunk.
He stood, glancing at Brian and noting his semiconscious state. “Time to move out,” he said in a loud voice. “The Legs’ll be back with reinforcements, and we need to be a long way from here when that happens.”
“He’s right.” An officer strode up. “Get the wounded in the vans, the rest in any vehicle that’s available. We’ll meet at Point Alpha in half an hour.” He trotted off.
Irish watched, stifling the sorrow that welled up when they carried Stuart out. “Get Brian and his brother in that van across the street and let’s go, people!” His loud voice worked like a lash, galvanizing everyone into purposeful activity. One last glance, and Irish hurried towards the van. Time to move.
* * *
Lieutenant Colonel Pratt, Commander of the Second Ennis Militia Battalion, pounded the dashboard of the vehicle he was in. “Damnit, what do you mean lost contact? We had two air assets, what happened to them?” Three of his companies had just entered Harper’s Glen, and closed up with what was left of the company that had sprung the trap on the royalists. Unfortunately, it looked as if they’d bitten off more than they could chew.
Lieutenant Chasney recoiled a step. “S-Sir, one of the flitters was shot down by heavy machine gun fire. The other dropped back to a safe…”
“Tell that pilot to get his ass back in contact with the enemy, or I’ll have him up on charges for cowardice. And tell Captain Ruska I expect his air scouts to be on scene in less than five minutes.” He gestured to his driver. “Move out. I want to be at the battle site soonest.”
Minutes later he stepped from his jeep, looking around the central square of Harper’s Glen. They’d stopped in front of a pub that looked the worse for wear with dozens of bullet holes peppering its front. This was where the royalist thugs had been holding a meeting. Damn, he hated those bastards!
Captain Shuler, commander of the advance company, rushed up. “Sir, this area’s not secure yet. We’ve just barely managed to force ‘em out of town.”
“Then get with it, man!” He unlimbered his binoculars and began scanning the area.
A loud thock and Shuler was on the ground, kicking his last from a head wound. What the hell? Suddenly his body slammed into the ground, shock filling him. His legs–couldn’t feel his…
* * *
One last scan of the area through the scope and Irish rolled to his feet, handing the rifle to the man next to him. “C’mon Sergeant Nolan, we’d better beat feet. Glad you brought your rifle with you.”
Nolan cast a look over his shoulder while they hurried off, long legs quickly catching up. “Damn, Sir, nice shooting. Must’ve been at least nine hundred meters.”
Irish allowed a moment of levity to creep in. “Eight-fifty, but who’s counting?” he replied, still striding further into the forest. “Y
ou sure you know where this Point Alpha is? I don’t want to walk all the way back to HQ unless we have to. Must be at least sixty klicks back.”
Nolan hurried to catch up. “Seventy-five, but who’s counting?”
“Wise ass. Okay, you lead. If you can, pick it up to a trot. We probably only have forty minutes before they leave without us.”
“No sweat, Sir.”
Moments later they disappeared among the trees and into the forest that blanketed over two hundred square miles on this part of the continent. There were still four vehicles at the rally point when they trotted up. Irish waved at the first van in line. “Room for two more?”
“Last vehicle,” the driver said. “Nice timin’. We just got the holler to move out.”
Once on board he sank back tiredly next to Nolan in the last row of seats. Taken as a whole, this had been one busy day. Leader of the rebels killed, second in command wounded. The rearguard fighting had been especially tiring. His eyes were drifting closed when he suddenly remembered and sat up with an exclamation. Nolan, sitting next to him, was carefully cleaning his rifle. “What’s up, Sir?”
Irish unlimbered his staff and gave both ends a twist, lengthening it and exposing the spear-like blade at the same time. He carefully examined it. “Damn! Blood on it. Didn’t clean it after the fight,” he said.
Nolan’s eyes goggled when the blade seemed to magically rise from the point of the staff. “Shite, Sir, that the same staff you been hammerin’ us with the last couple of weeks?”
“Hammer is a strong word, Sergeant,” Irish said, running a clean cloth over the blade. “I like to think they were more like love taps.”
Nolan chuckled. “Nice hand-to-hand weapon. By the way, I was glad you took those shots. I was so hyped up and nervous I’d of been lucky to hit the side of a building.”
“That’ll be the last part of your training when we start up tomorrow morning,” Irish said, twisting the upper handle of the staff and re-slotting the blade. “You have to learn to have complete focus on your target. Not let anything get in the way of making that perfect shot. Otherwise, you can be the best shot in the world and still miss.”