****
Tactical Feed: Navarro, J.
LSC Fox, Med Bay
North of Isla Guadalupe; Baja, NMX
The humming stopped and the door at my feet swung open. The bed slid out that door into sharp lighting. Shades of moving figures approached from the side.
"All done Señor Navarro," said a smiling medical tech. Her long hair was bound in a floppy blue hat. "Upload complete, serology complete. You are returned to duty."
"Gracias," I told her and swung my feet to the floor. A rack with my gear was wheeled close by a nervous looking male corpsman. "I watched it the whole time, Marshal."
"Thanks, I'm sure it's all right." I waved the back of my hand at the hatchway and the two of them left to let me dress out.
First, the Combat Skins, a full body suit of muscles wrapped in armor mesh. The suit was relaxed now, allowing me to step into it and pull the clavicle collar over my head. Once the suit realized I was inside, it tightened and shifted, seeking a close fit. Oils and nano fibers coated the inside, sealing it tight and finding my spine for instructions.
I performed a suit kata, to seal the fit and warm up the organics. Reflected in the mirror I looked like an old comic book hero, exaggerated muscles and a small head. The Skins were military grade augmentation, incredibly strong with a power to weight ratio engineers drooled over. You could recharge the whole rig with a handful of chemicals, further pleasing supply officers. And synthetic muscle made good armor even before the woven coating was added as a bullet stop. That feature was often a comfort in the field.
I unrolled a black cloth for the next step, revealing the toys. A birds-head ceramic knife slid into a sheath on my thigh. Extra magazines dropped into other leg sheaths. The flat little automatic went crossdraw against the stomach. It was my personal weapon, a Jericho, quiet and mostly polymer. A kobutan submission rod and some zip ties disappeared into other Skin pockets before I finally pulled on clothes.
Today I dressed like a field hand; bib overalls and work gloves. The bulky clothes and shoes made me look just a little fat. When I stuck a much crushed straw vaquero hat on, I could pass well enough in the right lighting.
Next, I reported for work on the Garda Battlenet. That was as simple as putting on a pair of Ray Ban net glasses and bringing up the internal systems. The medic's Life Pod had checked the implants and nanite colonies that lived in my soldiers’ body. It also remote entangled the small bits of quantum matrix snuggled along my spine. I heard a carrier tone and tiny graphics began popping up on the lenses of the Ray Bans. In a moment, I was in.
"Navarro, J in attendance," said the Commander. His voice was clear and immediate, coming from my inner ear but inaudible to anything outside my body.
"Report to Hangar Three at earliest."
I hummed just a bit in my throat and heard my voice reply, "Aye aye." From years of practice, the lips never moved.
The Ray Bans showed a path to take on a little deckplan graphic. I followed it into the passageway and up the companionway to the flight deck. Swabs and SEALs held areas of the deck, performing their prep work under scattered spotlights. Beyond them was the paddlewheel elevator, serving aircraft to the open air. Two Stealth & Rescue Lifters sat at the ready, circled by crew chiefs peering into turbofans and access ports to satisfy their checklists.
A piece of bulkhead grew blurry and took the outline of a man. He walked straight at me until the mimetic camouflage shut off and revealed a black Skinned Norte' SEAL. Visually, it was like a shadow stepping out of a mirror. That he used mimetics in the hangar to show off told me he liked to make his own fun. Or maybe it was the drugs. There was no telling what they had stuck this Scout with before the mission. Probably some combat mix that needed a field test.
"Marshal Navarro? That is a great Campesino costume."
"What do you mean? I wear this every Sabado."
The Scout found that pretty funny, "Every Saturday, hah right. I'm Johansen, out of Oceanside."
"So which one is my bird, Johansen?" I gestured at the two Lifters.
"Bird two, Foxhound. I'm on the Hare."
"Well I hope you can run fast, Johansen out of Oceanside."
"Any faster and you might as well jump with me."
It was my turn to think that was pretty funny, "Can't fault the gung ho, Master Chief."
"That's just an absence of doubt, Marshal."
His face hid well behind the visor, but his words left a chill in the air.
"Things are going to be a little flexible where we're going, Johansen."
"Then I am no doubt flexible, Marshal."
Chill still hung in his tone. Definitely drugs then. I recognized that false cool.
"Good enough, Chief. We'll swap feeds and make a highlight reel."
"Hooyah."
I found humoring these guys usually got better results. It was like they swallowed a bowl of anger and had to spew it somewhere. My own experience in the Combat Garda was just a blur of engagements under the needle. Domestics were the worst. But the chemistry reduced combat trauma significantly, both mental and physical, so it became policy. By muting the past we could report in the future or some happy horseshit like that. I hated it after a while and transferred out.
I waved 'bye to the SEAL and made my way toward Lifter two. On the way there a quick look back showed he was already gone. I would probably not see him again tonight.
Lifter two, AKA Foxhound, was powered up but empty. I stood with my head in the pilot's cabin and watched dials and lights switch themselves. The crew was phoning in on lagless quantum links, I could hear their flat voices. God only knew where they were in the Real.
Some could be dead soldiers, working for a Service Transfer Writ. I wished them luck with that labor lottery. I had been killed myself a few times but the insurance was better in the Templars. There weren't enough of us to spare and the Church took care of its own. It was a much better work environment all around.
The Lifter ramp rattled and I turned to see two Garda carrying packs enter the cabin. One busied himself stowing his bags while the other continued to approach. His bulky helmet showed a sea horse with wings on its sides but the visor just gave back my reflection in gold.
"Marshal Navarro? I'm Nunez. You have any gear with you?"
"No Chief, just what you see."
"OK. I verify the load and Medic Foster over there clears them."
Foster looked up at his name and showed a Red Cross helmet. He seemed too young to grow whiskers, but that was the preferred age for Combat Medics. Foster would be tightly controlled by chemicals and a Handler, following his progress on the Battlenet. Though sent to save lives a folded machine pistol rode his hip, medics having a short lifespan if not given the means to defend it. My own MOS entry into the Garda had been Combat Medic, going house to house in Tehran. I defended my life a lot there.
"Ready to go whenever you are."
We rode the paddlewheel carousel to the upper deck and left the ship behind. Somewhere ahead of us, the Lifter called Hare carried invisible men with guns to walk me in.
"Over Baja," said a voice on the Battlenet. I heard the Commander's voice answer my question before I could ask it, "Oliveros, M; Foxhound Pilot." The nose of the Lifter rose, causing me to tighten my grip on the webbing. We were sliding over the Baja peninsula to get at the Sea of Cortez on the other side. The Capitan of the Littoral Carrier wouldn't risk the boat in those waters and so sent us on this shortcut from the Pacific. We needed to be to the target and back out before dawn.
There is a thin spit of artificial peninsula called La Pinta, just twenty klicks long and a few hundred meters across. You could find it on the northern edge of the Sea of Cortez a little east of a tourist fishing town called Puerto Penasco, if you followed the unusually well-kept roads and if you didn't mind being subjected to checkpoints.
Mexican slang for jail is "La Pinta" and any found here could expect similar treatment. What filled La Pinta were resort towers and high end h
omes, playgrounds for rich tourists. This quiet corner of North Mexico was mostly filled with moneyed Americanos, Pacific Rim speculators and the Mexican gentry. They came and went on private aircraft, drove private roads and brought private security. They came here quietly, for deniable cosmetic surgeries or family vacations. Running a mob of Garda through their little peninsula would put us in court for a decade. Advocates on speed dial scared even Justice.
The Policia in Puerto Penasco tread eggshells with these guys, not wanting to bite the hand that wrote the checks. But we got reports. Some bad apples thought drugs and slavery would complete their idea of heaven. Businessmen saw the demand and went about securing a supply. Five or six kids a year pulled from the tourist herd were a statistic. More yet were taken from local towns, for that brush with the exotic that paid the bills. Officials received dollar blindfolds or a nice wreath at the funeral.
Intelligence on the gang with the biggest market share said they were Mongols from California, displaced by a San Diego turf war with the Hells Angels. That they were displacing the local groups spoke of a readiness for violence and deep pockets. California's experience was that they would rather blow themselves up than be captured. I wanted as few of them around tonight as could be arranged.
Their biggest mistake had been to believe a girl's fake ID. Misty Rowe existed only in movie databases. Senator Nagel's middle daughter was real enough. They grabbed her drunk out of a bar according to her bestess. Girlfriend was a little shady herself, so no one listened. Not until Senator Nagel got involved, a week later. A nonperformance rate hike on her tuition fund hit his desk and the Senator rounded up his people. He didn't talk much with his immediate family, but he would sure protect his own.
The Senator filed notice of possible terrorism and Garda units bid plans to get the funding. But the Senator wanted a Templar for the girl. The crime was probably not related to her Christianity, but Templars had a high success rate for this sort of extract. I was statistically likely and so won a contract with bonuses. Ethically, I was a minion, but a well-paid minion.
The problem descended to geography. Where in the Sonoran desert was Caitlan Nagel? She had been held almost a month without sign or demand before spies reported seeing her at the Mayan Palace and Casino. From there, money pried lips apart until we got the story. But the narrative didn't fix Caitlan's location to an address. She just appeared in the resort lobby some evenings and was whisked into the tower by her date's bodyguards. That lobby was the only fix we had. Tonight sometime she would show up and I would get her back.
****
About the Author:
I'm probably a lot like you. My days are filled with production, education and the fruits of procreation. That cycle continues still, through several careers and whole decades of my waking hours. When I want a little recreation, I pick up a book. My vacations fit in a pocket and go somewhere new every time. That's a pretty good bargain for the time pressed. Does any of this sound familiar?
After that, things get a little divergent. I study science habitually, just to see what is possible and where it might lead. Game theory and all types of performing arts are recreation. When I can string a few days together, I like to travel and look for the differences. People who travel know what I mean, that jarring convention somewhere else that makes you question your presumptions. That's the price of the trip, right there. Is any of this still familiar?
I enjoy immersing the reader; lifting them right out of their lives and dropping them into a devised variant built of language. The image of an old black and white science horror episode, where people just went 'poof' leaving behind a pile of clothes and a cooling cup of coffee, that would be my ideal transport for the readership.
Of course, returning them home is more difficult. Mussed hair and a dazed condition are the common complaints. But my lawyers assure me a simple disclaimer will render me suit-proof. Consider this fair warning.
Dalen Buchanan 2013
Titles by the Author:
Loading Souls
Reloading Souls
The Soul Electricus
The Explanatory Gap- coming soon
Connect with Me Online
Email
Loadingsouls at cox.net
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