“Around twenty-two forty,” she replied. “Wait for my call. And Poet, be careful.”
“No, Warlock,” Poet stated before the radio went silent. “You be careful.”
Looking up at the camouflaged cover, Warlock wondered at what altitude Poet was flying the shuttle and what did he have in mind for a diversion. Shaking off the questions, she picked up the scope, verified the position of the two ground guards and searched the parapets for the sniper.
Chapter – 25 Mission Assault
The shadows grew long and, as it happens in the mountains, they stretched briefly before darkness descended. Warlock used the last light to lay out her GCMC armor and torso body armor. Between them she placed a combat vest, a length of rope, a four-pronged grappling hook, two pitons and her combat knife.
Her initial plan included heavy armor, big weapons and a frontal assault. But a single Striker against eight or more unknown guards, unknown as in how well trained, how disciplined and their response time, left too many variables for the direct approach. Considering everything, stealth seemed the wiser option.
The GCMC armor got rolled up and set aside. And to Warlock’s dismay, the massive forty-five over and under rifle as well. In its place, she selected a short barreled nine-millimeter tactical carbine and a silencer. She wouldn’t leave her forty-five pistol behind. While the kinetic rounds required exact hits to penetrate body armor, the big chunks of alloy had knockdown power unless she hit an unprotected head or a limb. Then the big round turned flesh into hamburger meat. Extra magazines for the carbine and pistol went into the combat vest as well as water pouches, energy bars, battle dressings and packets of antiseptic. The rope and climbing gear went into a pouch that was rolled tight to prevent rattling. Once her equipment was sorted, Warlock pulled the scope from the case and resumed her surveillance in the last rays of light.
At nineteen hundred hours, the sniper appeared above the parapet wall on the right. Warlock pulled on the body armor, camouflage gloves, a baklava and the loaded vest. After shoving the combat knife in its scabbard, she slung the carbine on her back. At nineteen-thirty when the sniper mound dropped below the wall, Warlock started the mission clock on her PID and crawled out of the camouflaged observation post.
The PID count ticked to thirty minutes when Warlock reached the northern edge of the high plateau. She’s moved rapidly down the grade and on the flat by reaching out and grabbing the tree to the front. It was noisy but too far from the chalet to be heard and the trees too big to shake and reveal her passage. Slowing, she began the tricky journey down the uneven ground dropping off on the far side.
One hour and a half on the PID found her at the edge of the trees. At this point, the sniper should be at a front parapet and out of position to observe her movement across the cleared ground. Warlock broke out of the forest and jogged towards the distant manor house. When the high structure was back lit by the night sky, the PID vibrated and she dove to the ground in the tall weeds. Three minutes later and unseen but, anticipated by the Marine, the sniper took up sentinel duty in the right parapet. At two hours and twenty-two minutes on the PID, Warlock rose from the weeds and ran for the right corner of the wall.
The overwatch should just be arriving in the left parapet as the PID vibrated for the last time at the three hours and thirty-minute mark. Warlock leaped up and chinned so she could peer over the wall. While she synchronized with the sniper, she couldn’t account for the quicker rounds of the yard patrol. This would have to be visual.
Pep strutted from the dark and quickly passed beneath her. Warlock waited for him to reach the back corner and while he moved along the wall, she pulled, tossed a leg up and rolled over the top. It was so fast and efficient, even if the guard looked back he probably wouldn’t have noticed the Striker roll into the compound.
The mission clock clicked to three hours thirty-four minutes. Unstrapping the pouch, Warlock reached in, extracted the grappling hook and extended the four blades. After feeding out enough rope, she twirled the hook then released it.
Solid stone at the top clicked softly as one of the blades landed. Hook was a misnomer as the steel point rested on the granite rather than over the lip. But the tradeoff between a loud clank of a secure line and, the click of a tentative anchor was necessary. Warlock climbed hand-over-hand being careful to keep her body from swinging and dislodging the hook. Once she had a hand on the flat of the stone, she grabbed the grappling hook and tossed it over the parapet wall using the rope to lower it silently to the floor. Only then did she climb into the overwatch position.
***
The mission clock hit three hours and thirty-eight minutes and she clicked her headset.
“Warlock to Poet. Are you up?” she whispered.
“Waiting on your call,” Walden replied.
“Osprey Alert! Osprey Alert!” Warlock stated.
“Three minutes,” he advised. “Find a wall and keep your head down.”
“Understood,” Warlock responded, although she really didn’t.
With no idea of what the slightly insane pilot had planned, she lifted the trapdoor and took six steps down to an enclosed landing. Fast walking and rolling her feet from heels to toes, she moved silently along a passageway with muted light. It made sense as the sniper would lose night vision and the overwatch location would glow if the passage was brightly lit. She stopped at the steps leading up to the left parapet. Looking up, she saw a dark shape partially blocking the night sky. Easing the combat knife from its scabbard, Warlock placed a foot on the bottom riser and stopped.
One of the sounds combat infantrymen disliked, among the many ugly things they experienced, was a repeating whoosh. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh and whoosh came so fast they blended together into a nerve grating screech of incoming rockets.
How Walden managed to get a rocket launcher on the shuttle, she didn’t know but the distraction worked. The sniper ducked as the rear of the compound exploded. Rocks and dirt pummeled the parapet wall making a cacophony of sounds. Warlock took the steps two at a time and thrust with the knife. It passed between the sniper’s legs. The blade penetrated just below his sternum and ripped a gash from chest to crotch. As he fell to the floor of the parapet, the Marine jumped down to the passageway.
Outside, she heard voices crying in pain and another shouting for security elements to man the perimeter. Mikael Veeti directed his security force, preparing them to repel an attack. His error? The enemy was already inside the chalet.
Warlock slung the carbine off her back and screwed on the silencer. Spotting a set of steps going downward, she moved towards the opening.
“Now Jordy Katrijn, where are you hiding?” Warlock asked as she crept towards the light.
***
The only person easily spotted during a crisis was the principal. He would be the person covered by bodyguards and being hustled out of the danger zone. In the mansion, Warlock spotted Jordy’s location by the position of Sip and Dip. They stood on either side of an ornately carved door.
Warlock leaned her head down from the passageway and caught a quick glimpse of them before jerking her head back. Thankfully, they were watching the grand staircase waiting for an enemy.
“Poet. I could use more fireworks,” she whispered.
“Four minutes,” he replied. “But, I’m almost out of position.”
For a split second she almost asked for clarification about the high orbit and number of available rockets but stopped herself. If there was a later, she’d ask.
“Osprey Alert! Osprey Alert!” she ordered.
“On the way,” Walden reported. Then the radio crackled and went dead.
The Striker turned so her back was to the opening in the passageway and sat down. After balancing the carbine against her chest, Warlock crawled backwards until her butt was over the opening and the back of her knees were at the edge of the flooring. Then, balancing on her arms with the carbine laying across her lap, she waited.
It wasn’t a comfortable or s
afe position. For three and a quarter long minutes, her backside was exposed to anyone walking along the hallway below. As soon as the sound of the first whoosh reached her, Warlock pulled her arms in and grabbed the rifle as her upper body fell through the opening.
Hanging upside down, the Striker zeroed in on Sip and with the explosions covering the cycling of her carbine, she stitched him from thigh to head. Fortunately for Dip, Sip’s body absorbed most for the nine-millimeter rounds. As Warlock suspected, the space scarred guard didn’t get rattled.
It takes training and gunfighting experience to return fire as you drop to avoid incoming. The one flaw in Dip’s actions was he shot down the hallway where an attacker would be standing. Obviously, he’d never been exposed to a Strike Kill team assault or their tactics.
The prone position gave Warlock more target surface. Firing from the ceiling, she walked her rounds from the back of his legs to his neck. He jerked from the impacts but kept his trigger finger squeezing off rounds. Just before the carbine’s sights targeted his head, Dip’s barrel elevated and he got off two high rounds. Then, a nine-millimeter entered his forehead and scrambled his brain.
Warlock used her right hand to grasp the edge of the opening and pulled her legs free. Then she tumbled down the steps to the hallway. Blood gushed from her left arm where Dip’s bullet had punched an entrance and an exit hole.
“That’s going to leave a scar,” said the Marine as she dug a field dressing from her combat vest. Holding the corner of the packaging between her teeth, she ripped it open and shook out the pressure bandage with her right hand
She winced as she held one length of the dressing between her teeth and used her hand to tie off the bandage.
“I won’t be wearing short sleeves in polite company,” Warlock mumbled as she pushed off the floor and stubbled towards the door that Sip and Dip had guarded. “You better be worth this Jordy Katrijn. Or I’m going to lose my usual sunny disposition.”
At the door, she reached for the knob expecting it to be locked. Instead, the knob turned. Flinging the door open, Warlock stepped to the side and out of the doorframe. Four bullets cracked through the air from inside the room.
“Reinforcements are on the way,” a man announced. “You’d be wise to take your team and leave.
“You in the room, hotshot gunman, you have a name?” inquired Warlock.
Then there was a scuffle and another man said, “Maybe we can negotiate with them, Mikael.”
“Mr. Katrijn, please get back in the other room,” the first voice pleaded. “I’ll handle this.”
“Like you’ve handled it so far?” demanded Jordy Katrijn.
“I’ll admit, I didn’t anticipate military grade rockets,” Mikael said. “Right now, I need you out of the line of fire.”
“Fine. I’m calling the Councilor. Maybe he can get some planet Security Forces here,” Jordy stated, his voice fading as he entered another room. This was confirmed when a door slammed.
“You’ve bitten off more than you can handle,” challenged Mikael. “There’ll be helicopters and troops here soon. You’d better clear out.”
His voice was calm and almost reassuring. It didn’t match the real man Warlock had seen and the images of Mikael Veeti provided by Walden. Then she realized he was doing reverse hostage negotiations and stalling for time.
“I guess we’ll just plant our explosives and blow the chalet,” threatened Warlock. “Or, you can let me talk to Mr. Katrijn.”
“Sure, come in,” offered Mikael.
There was no way Warlock was walking into the room although she knew the mission window was drawing to a close. Plus, she was light headed from blood loss. Not a great combination when operating solo. Leaning out a little from the wall, she glanced through the doorway at the left side of the room. It resembled an old-fashioned parlor. An antique love seat and an end table sat in front of a silk dressing screen.
Warlock lifted the goggle and focused on the silk. A blurry image moved behind the fabric. But it wasn’t a solid object, more like a cardboard cutout. Then she smiled. Scattered images from a mirror behind the silk entered her scanner. Her brain sorted the input and, in her mind, she saw a reflection of Mikael squatting behind a big desk. His elbows on the desktop held a rifle aimed at the doorway.
It was tough getting the body armor off Sip but she managed with a final tug. Then she allowed the carbine to hang and, while holding the armor between her knees, she drew her pistol.
“No guts. No glory,” Warlock whispered as she gripped the edge of the body armor with her fingers.
She dropped it and the armor draped over her foot.
“I’m coming in,” she shouted as her leg kicked the body armor at the other side of the doorway.
It slammed against the frame and Mikael put three rounds into the armor. It was a nice tight grouping except, his overconfidence allowed him to relaxed for a millisecond. Warlock used the time to hop around the frame and shift right as she fired low. Gouges from the desk sent splinters into Mikael’s face. He fell back trying to avoid the heavy rounds and the chunks of wood. His rifle, thrown up beside his head as he dodged back, was too far off line for a defensive shot.
Warlock rushed forward, leaped on the desk, and pointed the barrel of her pistol down at the bodyguard.
“This is for Rufus Tygo,” Warlock explained.
“Who is that?” Mikael asked.
“You wouldn’t understand,” stated the Marine as she fired a kinetic round into his eye. Then she fired again. “And that one is for Spencer.”
Jumping down, she marched to the interior doors and threw them open.
“Mr. Katrijn. We need to have a chat.”
***
Jordy Katrijn had a great head of hair for a sixty-year-old and he kept his body in shape. But he had no self-defense instincts. When you could afford to outsource survival skills why bother developing them?
At the moment, he wanted to give in to his fight reflex. Watching the well-balanced stroll of the person coming through the doorway, the bloody bandage, and the sight of the big pistol caused the flight impulse to win. He shoved aside a dresser and attempted to crawl behind it.
“Really?” asked Warlock in disgust. Reaching out with the pistol, she tapped him on the shoulder. “Put your big girl pants on and come out and talk to me.”
Jordy backed out of the crack and, realizing he was speaking to a girl, he smiled.
“Look here. I’m sure all this must be a mistake,” he insisted. “How much do you need to go away, sweetheart?”
Warlock winked at Jordy and, although he couldn’t completely see her face, she smiled. The humorous expression lasted until her foot snapped out and dislocated his kneecap.
He crumpled to the carpet and wrapped his hands over the knee and the painful patella.
“Let me see if I can explain this in a language you’ll understand, sweetheart,” she said using the barrel of her pistol to lift his chin. “This isn’t a negotiation. It’s a trade.”
“A trade?” he asked between clinched teeth. The knee hurt, he was desperate, and her offer of a trade seemed like a way out. “What do you want? What do I get?”
Warlock allowed her sensor to sample Jordy.
“I want the air gapped computer with your business dealings concerning the Empress,” Warlock stated.
“I have no idea what you are insinuating,” he lied as his ammonia levels and carbon dioxide output spiked. “Look baby, I’m an important man with friends on the Galactic Council. You’ve made an error. I’m a loyal citizen of the Realm.”
“Oh, why didn’t you say so before,” Warlock said as she holstered her pistol. He straightened up until she reached across her body and slowly drew the combat knife. “Look here, baby. It’s a big knife. There are four uses for a big knife in situations like this.”
“What are they?” he inquired. His eyes never left the sharp blade.
“You give me the computer and it goes back in the sheath,” Warlock li
sted. “Or I kill you. Or I cut you, a lot and, leave you scarred for life. Or, I nick an artery and you die holding a hand over your neck while you bleed out. Oh wait, that was number two. Or was it? For a traitor, I really don’t care which you choose. Choose now!”
Her experience and training were screaming for her to get out of the room and out of the chalet. If she had a team to protect, she’d already have them moving. But she didn’t leave because Jordy Katrijn was shaking violently and crying.
“It’s in my dresser,” he whimpered pointing to the displaced piece of furniture.
“Get it,” Warlock ordered sensing he was telling the truth.
Jordy used the side of the dresser to crawl to his feet. Standing, he held the injured knee up to keep from putting weight on it. He eased out a drawer, reached in and Warlock placed the point of the knife at his throat.
“Just in case you rediscover your manhood,” she suggested.
His hand shook as he lifted out a data pad and offered it to her. Too convenient, she thought.
“Open it,” she directed.
“It’s not on the net,” he explained. “If I open it, it’ll connect.”
“Why should I care?” began the Marine when she realized Jordy Katrijn had settled into a relaxed state. His breathing and sweat were normal. He should be nervous. After putting away the knife, she pulled the pistol. “Back up to the wall and sit down.”
He hesitated until she put the barrel against his forehead.
“I’m having a bad day,” she sneered. “Don’t make me ruin yours. Oh, sorry sweetheart, your day is already a wreck. Now move.”
He backed up, bumped into the wall and sat down while favoring the knee. Warlock placed the pistol on the dresser top and shuffled through the clothing. Her fingers touched a surface of rough artificial material.
“A faraday bag? Imagine that Mr. Katrijn, a cover preventing electronic pollution,” Warlock exclaimed as she examined the folded and double stitched seams. Walking over to Jordy, she squatted down to let her sensor get a reading. “Is this the computer with your treasonous dealings?”
Op File Treason Page 23