Cassandra Kresnov 5: Operation Shield

by Joel Shepherd

  “The CSA charter says we have medical jurisdiction on all of our people, but the chatter from the civvie ambulance that just landed suggests they're taking both to Arora General, where the Feds have cordoned off the top floor to treat all the other people they've shot. Be warned what you're getting into here, legal advice is murky, CSA SWAT has been suspended, so technically we're not supposed to be flying, but then this is an emergency medical rescue, and to the best of my extensive legal training, I can't see how suspending SWAT suspends the CSA charter, given the rest of the CSA is not suspended.

  “If you don't want to dismount, that's fine, possibly we'll all get arrested at some point. But removing our people from our care is an assault on the CSA charter, and an assault on the CSA charter is an assault on Callayan security. These guys are Federal security. Fuck Federal security, if they want to step on us, we'll step on them harder. Let's get our people back.”

  Poole suspected the bit about “extensive legal training” was a joke; there were stories about how Captain Singh had once been considered the SWAT trooper least likely to achieve anything significant, only to prove everyone wrong when the heavy shit started seven years ago. But he couldn't tell if his colleagues were smiling, their faceplates were down, systems tuned into tacnet and hoping the damn thing wouldn't collapse on them once they were down. Probably why Singh wanted him along, Poole thought, gripping his handhold as they jolted through another three-G turn. An independent thinker with few qualms about pulling the trigger, his training reviews were all in agreement. Singh wanted another GI who wouldn't freeze if tacnet crashed, and the fact that he'd chosen Poole suggested he was in no mood for talking nicely.

  Then they were slowing. Poole could tell the nacelle pitch was changing by the changing note of the engines, a vibration that made the interior hold rattle and throb.

  “Hello, anonymous Federal authority,” Singh addressed them. Poole guessed that was humour too, the unfunny kind. “This is emergency CSA dustoff, we're here to pick up our people according to the constitutionally approved CSA charter, please assist.”

  “Negative CSA dustoff, we register your vehicle as a SWAT flyer, SWAT is currently suspended by order of OID, return to base or be considered in violation.”

  “Hello, Federal authority, only a nuclear strike will nullify CSA charter, so unless you're prepared to nuke CSA HQ, I suggest you prepare to assist.”

  No reply, as the flyer flared, Gs pressing them down, a disorientation of inner ear and balance as they swung about and dramatically lost speed.

  “Okay, guys,” Singh said calmly, “let's keep it nice and low key. Medics off first with me, Poole and Patrick on the flanks, everyone else defensive perimeter. No aggressive moves, no weapons raised, keep it casual and be prepared to shoot anything that moves on my signal.”

  The rear ramp went down, and the medics were rushing out with their gurneys, with light armour more to help them carry gear and move faster than for combat. Singh, Poole, and Patrick went with them, walking rapidly along the wide expressway in the early dawn, just twenty meters short of where a twisted lump of metal that might once have been a car now lay amidst a rain of debris.

  Emergency crews were already there, a fire truck with several firemen in armoured suits not too different from SWAT's, bending and pulling at wreckage with gloved hands, another with cutting tools. Even now one body was being eased out, limp and bloody…a woman, and bending in amongst the firemen was a uniformed cop, looking alarmed.

  At the approach of CSA medics, Feds made a line between them and the wreck, four armoured, another six plainclothes, weapons ready, several more running in from where their cruisers had just landed farther up the road. Singh held up a hand for his guys to stop short, then gestured at the cops around the perimeter of the wreck. The cops were now in furious conversation, the one who had checked the just-removed woman pointing back to her. And saw Singh gesturing and came walking briskly over. Not running, not with all this twitchy firepower around, and the shrilling howl of an A-12 circling somewhere around the perimeter.

  “Brother,” said Singh, shaking the cop's hand, faceplate still down. In the noise of flyer engines, cruisers, and cutting tools, no moderate conversation would carry much beyond Poole and Patrick. “Captain Singh, SWAT One.”

  “That's one of ours,” said the cop, with no interest in what Singh was doing here, risking a firefight at an accident scene. Pointing back to the wreck. “That's Detective Sinta. We're getting word the Feds wanted her in connection with the coup, now they just fucking blow her up?”

  “Okay, listen,” said Singh. “First, cover your mouth when you speak or they'll read your lips. The guy she's with, that's one of ours, Agent Ruben, he's best friends with Ibrahim from Ibrahim's CSA days, got it?” The cop nodded. “Ibrahim wants Sinta, Ibrahim doesn't buy this coup bullshit, that's the word. Sinta knows something that could sink them. You let Sinta go with these guys to Arora General, you might never see her again.”

  “They're saying they'll arrange access for us…”

  “Buddy, when I say you'll never see her again, I don't mean some procedure will block you for a week. I mean bullet in the head. You get me?” The cop's stare was fearful. “If we get her, you can come see her immediately. They look badly hurt, we've got no time for some legal pissing contest. Just get ready to hit the deck.”

  The cop nodded shortly and walked back to his colleagues. His stride was a little shaky, the way untrained straights got when adrenaline overload hit their system. Another few seconds, someone would pick that up and give them away.

  Singh beckoned Poole and Patrick closer. “Don't kill anyone; we'll need a couple of hostages so they won't shoot us down on the way back.”

  Poole shrugged. “Cool.” And to Patrick, “One high, one low?”

  “You go high,” Patrick acknowledged. “Armoured targets first.”

  Poole nodded and jumped. Powered armour didn't help a GI much, probably slowed him down if anything with weight and mobility restriction, but he didn't want to get higher than four meters, hanging in the air any longer with a totally predictable trajectory would get him shot.

  He put down two of the armoured troops with short bursts in the legs, shots clustering to overload and fragment the armour, then switched to single fire as he fell, and the other two armoured troops fell to Patrick, pulling a pistol left-handed and firing with both hands as his feet hit and knees took the impact with barely a jolt. Feds fell everywhere, clutching arms, legs, knocked spinning by the sheer force, others diving for cover, Poole letting them go and running instead to one of the wounded plainclothes, flinging him over a shoulder, then walking backwards.

  The CSA medics were running at the wreck, pushing startled firemen and civvie medics aside, wrestling a body off one gurney and onto another. “Go go go!” Singh was yelling, taking the wounded plainclothes off Poole's hands even now. A Fed agent popped out from behind a flyer's undercarriage to fire, Poole put a round through his arm, then put more fire into some grounded cruisers farther off to keep heads down.

  And turned to look out at the hovering A-12, now at a full stop with racks extended…but what was he going to do, use heavy weapons on a cluster of his own wounded people?

  The medics were running back now, heads down, but no fire pursued them, those Feds not shot having seen what happened to anyone who tried. Captain Singh walked, his armoured stride supporting a wounded agent over each shoulder, his two GI troopers retreating backward behind him, weapon in each hand. One wounded man reached for a weapon lying nearby; Patrick shot it away from him.

  The defensive perimeter troops pulled in, then Poole and Patrick jumped aboard just as the flyer lifted, ramp closing, nose dropping as it thundered at full power and roared away.

  “That A-12’s right up our ass,” said the pilot, and Poole looked, seeing the ramp hadn't gone up completely, probably Singh figured it was better whoever chased was reminded of the Feds now aboard. Sure enough, the gunship was barely a hundred mete
rs behind, just to one side and above their slipstream, full weapons deployed and unable to use them. Whoever was in charge of this back at OID would be looking through its visuals, real time, fuming at the CSA flyer that had defied their grounding and apparently their expectations, judging from how they'd gotten away with it.

  Seated alongside the two gurneys, equipment, and medics treating their patients, now including two wounded Feds, Captain Singh took off his helmet, giving the A-12 a good look at his face, thin beard, patka turban. Popped some gum, handed some to Poole as he removed his helmet too, and accepted, then tossed some more to Patrick who did the same.

  “When I was first assigned to Commander Rice's SWAT Four,” Singh shouted at Poole over the roar and howl of engines and wind, “back when she was just an LT, she told us that in psychological standoffs, sometimes you just gotta be a bigger pain in the ass than the other guy!”

  “Well, she'd know!” said Poole. Singh laughed. “I think that job description suits me! Jason Poole, CSA SWAT, pain in the ass!”

  Singh smiled. And pointed to the gunship following them, attracting its attention. Raised a middle finger at it. “Why you think I'm so good at this job?”

  Landing at CSA HQ was even more intense. Waiting for them at the edge of the pad was Director Chandrasekar, arms folded, smart jacket and sleek hair blown about by the downdraft, grim as death. The medics wheeled past at a run, gurneys and patients on their way to intensive care and surgery. Singh and SWAT One followed at a walk, their Captain first, helmets off. At Chandrasekar's back were other agents, Investigations, various specialties, all armed and tense.

  “Agent Varghese!” Chandrasekar yelled above the declining shrill of engines. “Place Captain Singh under arrest, remove him of armour and weapons, and take him to holding!”

  Singh pulled his pistol and chambered a round. But did not raise it. The agents backing Chandrasekar were very reluctant to raise theirs, seeing how outgunned they were. “Sorry Vargie!” he said. “You do that, I'll put you down!”

  “Captain Singh!” Chandrasekar fumed. “This is dangerously close to mutiny!”

  “Maybe it is!” Singh snarled. “What you going to do about it, hairpiece?”

  Chandrasekar stared. Hell of a question. Poole could see him thinking. The agents at his back were good men and women, real professionals, but combat was not their specialty. SWAT's was. And if SWAT rebelled, who in the CSA would stop them? Not only did they lack the will, they lacked the capability.

  The pad doors opened once more as Lieutenant Widjojo walked out, a small man in his service jumpsuit, unarmed, cigarette in mouth and a cup of coffee in each hand. Commander of SWAT Six, no less. He walked straight onto the pad, past his primary boss, and up to Singh, his second but more immediate boss. Handed him the coffee, utterly nonchalant.

  “Sorry, boss,” he told Chandrasekar. “I did a year of constitutional law. CSA charter doesn't get annulled just because chain of command says it does. If chain of command breaks with constitutional practise, chain of command is broken, that makes you the top link in the chain. At which point you stand for us, and they can go fuck themselves. Ibrahim wouldn't have made that mistake.”

  “Ibrahim isn't here,” Chandrasekar retorted. “And you break with this chain of command, your career is over.”

  “Which brings me to my second constitutional point,” Widjojo added, tapping cigarette ash onto the pad. “Fuck you.”

  Poole liked that one better. That one, you couldn't argue with.

  “Sir,” said another agent, a woman whose name Poole hadn't learned, in a calming voice, “it's obvious we're at a serious impasse here. Why don't we go inside and talk about this?”

  Singh shrugged, indicating he was willing. But showing no sign of putting his gun away. Chandrasekar calculated furiously. If he'd lost Singh and Widjojo, he'd pretty much lost SWAT. And short of calling in the Feds with A-12s and heavy firepower, there wasn't much he could do about that. If he declared SWAT in open rebellion, the entire CSA became a paralysed laughing stock…and who actually arrested SWAT troopers who defied the law? The police? What could the poorly armed cops do about it? And in current circumstances, how many Tanushan cops would be willing? SWAT weren't even openly defying “Operation Shield” yet, just arguing with the way it was implemented where CSA personnel were concerned.

  In fact…Poole blinked as the connection came clear in his head. SWAT rebellion could become a rallying point in a broader Callayan opposition. Not that most of the Callayan population were yet suspicious of the coup claims, many of them not trusting GIs or FSA spec ops, but that could change. So Chandrasekar now had to find a way to keep it all under wraps before it blew up into something much bigger that could hurt his true master—Callayan President Singh.

  Funny how Sandy had always said all this stuff was connected, popular opinion, political forces, and eventual breakouts of shooting and violence. He'd never really seen it before, and never found the prospect that interesting. Funny how all this complicated stuff became much more interesting when the shooting started.

  Finally Chandrasekar jerked his head toward the buildings, turned and walked. Relief swept the landing pad, mostly amongst the non-SWATs. Singh de-chambered his pistol round and put it away, walking up to the most notably relieved Agent Varghese.

  “Sorry, Vargie,” said Singh with an easy grin. “Hairpiece left me no choice. Would have just been a flesh wound, I promise, nice scar to show your grandkids.”

  Varghese did not look convinced.

  Spec ops armoury was walled up tight. Amirah wondered at it, following the Director along the armoury bay floor, past heavy secured door after heavy secured door, electronically locked and sealed. The entire practise range was off limits, full security exclusion activated—it ran on the FSA's private security network; Amirah doubted even Kresnov could have broken into it.

  The Director was carrying now, an automatic in a shoulder holster and a backup on his ankle. He'd even put on a light vest under his shirt at Amirah's suggestion when she'd half-expected him to reject it. The Director was not a man to object to sensible things on points of personal pride. Amirah had no idea where all of this was going, but she was glad that her role in it was to protect this man. As a CSA trainee, CSA instructors had spoken privately of their respect for Ibrahim and their uneasiness at his departure. Following him around the past twenty-four hours, she was coming to see what they meant.

  In the hall ahead, some spec ops soldiers were gathered in conversation—two GIs and two not. They straightened as Ibrahim approached, almost attention, which was not an FSA thing; FSA were technically civilian, if only in the sense that they were not military.

  “Sir,” said one of the GIs. “Do you require any further personal protection?” With a glance at Amirah.

  Ibrahim stopped, with a faint smile. “You don't think Trainee Togales is up to it?”

  “Not that, sir. But wouldn't some more guards be safer?”

  Ibrahim considered. “Probably, Sergeant Pinto.” Pinto looked pleased the Director knew him—the FSA was a big organisation, and Ibrahim new to the job. Amirah suspected he knew everyone by sight already. “Probably I could have one hundred armed GIs with me at all times and that would be safest of all. But it would be dysfunctional for my current tasks. Should I require more, I'll be sure to ask you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “In the meantime, stay patient, and be alert. You may be required to act at a moment's notice, but which moment I cannot say.”

  Several others came to walk with Ibrahim on his way back up to his office and talk about things. Amirah was locked into the outer layers of his personal construct for security purposes, something of a privilege for a no-rank like her. She could see him monitoring multiple channels simultaneously, with a freedom here in FSA HQ that he would not have anywhere else. From the frequency of those private conversations, the content of which she did not know, she guessed that Ibrahim had a lot of wheels in motion.

 
Waiting for him outside his office were two distinct groups, one nervous and out of place, the other in busy internal conference on ongoing matters, a tight huddle of chairs in a corner. The head of the nervous group came up to Ibrahim—a woman, youngish, with shoes and bracelets that suggested to Amirah a GC staffer, from across the green canyon, as that division between FSA and GC was now called.

  “Director, I'm Norah White, Assistant to the Chief of Staff, Ambassador Ballan's office. Can we have a word?”

  Ibrahim seemed to size her up in a split second. Whatever his conclusion, he kept it off his face, as always. “Very well.” And stood in the middle of the waiting room.

  Norah White looked flustered. “Privately, if you please.”

  “No,” said Ibrahim. “I didn't invite you. I'll only hold private audience with people who can act directly upon what I tell them.”

  Ms White pulled herself up. “Very well. Ambassador Ballan orders that the FSA shall remove its security detail from the Supreme Court Justices. OID will now take that security under its own jurisdiction.”

  Ibrahim nodded. “Ambassador Ballan informed me of this himself. My answer remains the same.”

  White looked quite tense. “You mean you do not intend to comply?”

  “No.”

  Silence in the waiting room. The second group paused in their little huddle of chairs and watched the drama.

  “May I ask why?” White ventured.

  “You may,” said Ibrahim.

  White took another deep breath. “Director, I do hope that you fully grasp the gravity of this decision, the OID…”

  “Has no jurisdiction to overrule the FSA on the matter of security for the Supreme Court and its Justices,” Ibrahim cut her off, clean like a sword. “Furthermore, I also hope that Ambassador Ballan recognises that I am not playing at some game of career advancement. I am fulfilling my life's mission. Please tell him so, those exact words. That will be all.”

  White took her leave with more relief than grace. “Yes, Director.” And hurried away, several assistants in tow.