The Weapon

  It was a warning of things to come. I didn't realize the significance at the time.

  In a few days, there was peace. It was peace born of terror. No one wanted to offend us, because we would wipe out entire towns in response. They talked, they agreed, they stopped.

  Then we had to leave.

  The factions resumed their mindless slaughter in less than six weeks.

  Chapter 15

  We returned home. We got a heroes' welcome from those who follow such things, and were forgotten in three days. That didn't bother me. At least I told myself that. I got a couple of medals, one for that insane "rescue" I wanted to forget and the other for the ridge battle. I stuck them on my greens and forgot about them. Most of us got bumped in pay, and were ordered to write up our experiences both technical and personal, so they could become part of the training doctrine.

  It took some time to unwind from the hair trigger I was wrapped around. Everyone else was like that, too. I think we had it worse, though. We'd had the most face to face with the enemy. We'd seen the most fire.

  It showed in us. We'd snap and snarl at each other over petty maintenance issues. Then we'd apologize and drink ourselves blind. Deni wanted to try Sparkle, never having tried an hallucinogen. I took some with her and we both went through an agony of nightmares. I don't recommend it for anyone who's recently seen anything disturbing. It seems to carry over, much as it would in a dream, I suppose.

  The only good thing about returning was being able to take leave. Deni and I headed for the nearest hotel first, and spent four days wrapped around each other, craving comfort and touch and sex with someone else who understood the coarse edge we were riding. We talked about going home to visit, but it didn't seem like the kind of thing we were comfortable with, so we made calls and sent letters and begged off, pleading stress and schedule. It disappointed our families, mine more than hers, as hers were still uncomfortable with the idea of military service. If they had any idea of the body count she'd racked up they'd scream. It was better for us, though.

  My sister did sneak out to visit us from school with her boyfriend Chuck. It was a shock. She was grown up. I just can't think of her as mature and sexually active. She's my little sister.

  She was perceptive, and Chuck seemed to understand why we were so edgy. We treated them to dinner, which they were grateful for. They packed away their salmon. Deni had elk and I had venison, but my enthusiasm for the subtleties of food wasn't there. I mean, it was wonderful to eat real food again, but other things were keeping my mind busy.

  By the end of dinner, I'd come around slightly. The looks Jackie and Chuck kept giving each other were amusing, and I sent them on their way. "G'night, Squirt," I said, just like old times.

  "Jacqueline, please! Kennie," she said, exasperated and mocking in return.

  "Kennie?" asked Deni with a smile and an eyebrow.

  "Alright, I concede," I said.

  It was different from what it had been, but it was home.

  We returned to base and got back into training to keep our minds from moping. Counterterrorism was our gig, and we had a full schedule of activities and techniques relevant to the upcoming Olympics to worry about. I spent all day and night rehearsing entry techniques, reading reports, studying maps and conferring with Special Projects. There were two other squads assigned the same duty, and we trained against each other with the third team assessing the other two. We had our own Public Affairs officer, a Captain Hidochi, who was neat and cute and capable of distracting any reporter from the filthy thugs behind her, who knew our operations so well that she could bullshit anything important into a full screen story that would fascinate the masses and bear no resemblance to reality whatsoever, and make petty details more exciting than the real work.

  We didn't really expect any problems with the Games, but we prepped as if we did. We had only three months to get our edge back.

  * * *

  Westport was the host city, and there were tens of thousands of athletes, support staff, and news whores planetside with more arriving constantly. Numerous reservists and Private Militias were making money as security, and the private agencies were all booked as security escorts. The bars and entertainers in and around Westport were making a killing. I wondered if I'd have time to swing by home, but was there anything there for me?

  A week before the Games, we got a mission call. I was surprised. I was nervous. I was ready to kick ass. I was disgusted at the prospect.

  It seems some terrorists never learn. This wasn't the Fruits, this was the anti-royal Marxian extremists from Caledonia, the Common People's Action Group. They'd tangled with one Operative before—Rowan Moran. They now were to meet with a whole squad. Masochists.

  I got the call, scrambled the squad, and headed for Westport, posthaste and with all gear, as I read the brief. Their hostage was one Caledonian equestrienne, Annette Stewart. You recall her. Princess? Military background? Their plan as stated was to have several "political prisoners" (read, "gutless shit who should have been flushed, not incarcerated") released and taken off-planet (off Caledonia. We don't hold prisoners in the Freehold), or they'd kill her. Simple enough. Rather boring, actually. The last time I'd played terrorist for a field exercise, I'd demanded steaks, beer and the best female blowjob artist on base, to do me while she wore the general's uniform. At least be original with your demands. It keeps the CTs guessing.

  We landed and drove nondescript ground vans to the district where we were pretty sure they had her while we prepped our gear. I got briefed. She'd elected to play tourist the week before, and do some riding at the ranches in the area also. Busy week. She planned to follow that with the Olympics. If I had her figured correctly, she would still plan to, assuming we got her out intact. We drove up and debarked inside the cordon, and Naumann and I had to deal with politics.

  "This is Warrant Leader Kenneth Chinran," he introduced as I approached. "Warrant Chinran, Sir David Carstairs, Caledonian Ministry of State."

  I reached to shake hands in Caledonian style. He did so, but reluctantly. There was a definite sniff of disdain as he looked at me. He turned, eyes still on me, and said, "Commander Naumann, I understood you were bringing in your best team? I was expecting . . . someone of higher rank."

  Naumann looked the way I felt. This clown obviously hadn't read his own nation's report on our training mission. Still, that spoke well for my personal cover. Naumann said, "Warrant Chinran is as good as they come, recently returned from Mtali, has a rested, fully-trained and battle-tested squad that took almost no casualties in the densest combat, is one of our counterterror experts and has met the princess personally. That's an edge I think we can use."

  At least he had the decency to admit his error. He looked surprised and impressed, gripped my hand tighter and said, "I apologize, Warrant Leader Chinran. It seems you are the right person for the job."

  "I don't look the part, sir," I replied. "Which can be a good thing by itself."

  "Quite," he agreed. "So, how do we proceed?"

  "First, I need all the intelligence I can get and my support team needs to set up their comm post. After that, I'll let you know."

  Naumann had his comm people come in. They're not assigned to us except during our activities. I'd rather have a dedicated team, but we lack the funds and personnel. But they're good enough, I trust them.

  Next was to find intel. We couldn't just go in shooting.

  The area was filled with the usual traffic both on ground and in the air. Terrorists like that because they think it gives them more children to hide behind. I like it because it lets them think that. We started overflights in unmarked cars and in flight harnesses, carrying sensor suites that were the equal of anything on the battlefield, but tuned for this type of work. Four of our vertols flew higher up. That was expected, and unless these cretins objected, I planned to fly them ten divs a day.

  Of the millions of images we took in various parts of the spectrum, the filters in the comms pulled a few hundred
for us to look at. Those were matched against what records we do have of people and rated according to threat level. It would be easier if we kept people under constant orders and forced them to live in barracks, but then, so would everything. You work with what you have. We recorded every broadcast in the area, and flew solo flyers through the streets looking for telltales of a laser that a signal could ride on.

  The first suspect was stunned senseless when a team of Operatives dragged him off the street and into a van. A few quick questions and checks proved him to be a local artist who was not likely to be helping terrorists. Still, he'd been in the right area taking images and making notes. We apologized, offered him a good view and a nice dinner if he came with us to ensure his silence, and he agreed. He'd get a "good" view for a civilian: what we wanted him to see and nothing else.

  Skanda Nashold, the CPAG's local goon, repeated his demands while we were searching. Carstairs wanted to negotiate with him. I've always believed in negotiating with terrorists. I give them the choice of a bullet through the face during the engagement, or a bullet through the neck afterwards. Carstairs had less practical ideas, of course. Naumann played nanny and reassured him that we really did know what we were doing and that it might take time to achieve a resolution, but the princess was safe as long as we were under deadline and didn't push too hard where they could notice it.

  It was 1 div, after most clubs closed and things started getting quiet, when we got a break. One of the pictures pulled showed a man in a building window with low-light binoculars. He was constantly scanning the streets around the area. A check showed there was a laser operating intermittently. We tracked that to its destination. Shortly, the snitch was face down on the floor while Tyler jammed a carbine into his spine and whispered sweet nothings to him. "There's nothing to stop me from killing you," "There's nothing I'd rather do more," and similar comments. She got enough of his voice on file so we could hopefully fool his buddies into thinking he was still secure. Then she brought him down.

  Now, there are strict rules of decency where warfare is concerned. On Mtali, we went out of our way to abide by them until the endgame. Prisoners were decently treated (we did "encourage" a few to talk, but no permanent marks were left), wounded were treated, and civilians were kept as far out of the line of fire as possible. This makes sense for several reasons: first, so the enemy has reason to reciprocate, second, so as to reduce civilian fear of invaders, third, because it's the decent thing to do.

  These rules, of course, apply to civilians, enemy troops, and the wounded. Note that terrorists aren't on that list. Most counterterror teams aren't overly concerned with how our prey fare. As far as Freehold law, the thugs are welcome to file suit against the government and/or the Operative, and see how far they get in Citizens' Court; typically, nowhere. I had no name, my unit didn't exist, no one had seen a thing. I like that advantage.

  So, we dragged this sorry waste of breathing air into the van, slammed him against the framework, and encouraged him to talk. I shook him and banged him until he was almost vomiting from dizziness, screamed into his ear something to the effect of, "I'm going to jam your dick into a meatgrinder and feed the sausage to my dog," and kneed him in the gonads a few dozen times. Several full-body slaps across the face, a few punches, fingers into the gut, boots into the knees and shins, and a burst of blanks fired off close enough to his right ear to cause hearing damage and disorientation got him in the right frame of mind: bewildered, terrified, and unable to track.

  He was stubborn and wouldn't talk. However, I could see the "meatgrinder" comment hit him. The word was out in the terrorist community, and I was glad to know that. But he was too stupid to talk. I stepped up to stage two: I actually asked him questions.

  "Who are you? How many? Names of the rest of you? How are you positioned in the room?" I punctuated the questions with more slams into the frame.

  No, I wasn't going to dismember him, fun as it would have been. We might need him to answer more questions later. I kept varying the attacks, preventing him from getting used to any particular pain, and avoiding permanent injury, although his bruises would mark him for months. I paused for about a second, said, "Well?" and when he didn't sing went right back to it. The idea is to give them no respite, no break in which to collect their thoughts, and eventually you override self-control and the unconscious begins answering you to avoid the pain. If they have time to think, they'll fabricate a story to make you happy, whether it's true or not; so you keep pounding without pause until they answer. It's a skill. Don't ask me where I learned it, just accept that I have done so.

  I bent his fingers until they almost broke, twisted his wrists and shoulders, grabbed one of our tools and teased his face with it. The tool in question was a tiny, spiked wheel used for laying out stitching by old-fashioned hand sewers. Applied gently, it can be very tingly and actually erotic. Applied a little harder, it punctures the skin and hits nerves. The face is very sensitive.

  I could see him starting to break, so I tore his clothes open and ran it over his scrotum and up his belly and chest. That almost feels like being gutted. The tool is polished alloy and looks like a surgical tool too if you keep it moving too fast for a good image. It leaves a trail of punctures that weep surface blood. That did it. He named names, gave me an accurate if stuttered map of the suite, and begged me to stop. I kept rolling it over him, leaving long, bleeding, red welts and demanded more and more information as it glittered in the glare from the spotlights. Occasionally I'd place my palm in front of his nose, smack it, and jam his head back into the frame. He'd wince, loll his head, straighten up and insist he was telling me everything he knew. And I believed him, but I'll take any opportunity to cause a terrorist pain.

  In no more than five segs I had all the information I needed. I dropped the limp form to the bed of the van, turned, and headed out to plot and scheme. Behind me I heard Carstairs say, "Well, he's certainly . . . forthright."

  First, we had to wait yet again. We had to gently let slip that we knew where they were. Naumann handled that end while I listened. Nashold ranted and screamed.

  After he wound down, Naumann said, "Sir, you must know how this is played. Of course we're trying to find you. After all, we don't want innocent people hurt."

  "If I don't see bystanders on the street, I will shoot this bitch," Nashold insisted.

  "We hope you won't do that, sir. But at least by knowing where you are, we can arrange a proper pickup of the princess, and yourself when you wish to leave." He was so reasonable and bumpkinlike. We didn't mean to break your rules. We're sorry we outthought you. Sorry, sorry.

  "We will make our own travel arrangements," he said. "And we'll take this Stewart bitch with us."

  "We really wish you wouldn't."

  "You can't stop us. The people have the power, now. Once we show the universe that—" and off he went, masturbating again. As long as he was ranting, he wasn't shooting, so we let him.

  Meanwhile, I walked to our support van and spoke to the Special Projects sergeant, Danielle Clancy. "Danni," I said, "I need civilian clothes with camouflaged integral armor, ID and accessories, vid and a transceiver they can't detect."

  The best thing about being considered yokel colonists is that we can do outrageous things to catch people off guard and not be suspected. I was about to play on that.

  * * *

  Shortly, I was garbed and ready. I had a microburst transceiver buried just below the skin, which would appear as a typical hi-tech executive implant phone to a scan. I hoped. It would rip out easily and leave only a painful, bloody wound. Of course, they might just stab through it if I got caught. It transmitted in scrambled bursts when triggered, and only for a few microseconds at a time. I had contact lenses in that were molecular scale cameras with inductance circuits to the "phone." It was several hundred thousand credits worth of hardware, which we hoped was still secret at that time.

  Meanwhile my team was sneaking into the building as housekeepers and support s
taff, their weapons being delivered in service vehicles.

  On the whole, a hotel room wasn't a bad place for the terrorists to use. It had a good, clear field of fire. They obviously had staked out rooms on other sides to keep an eye on things. It was easy to watch the halls for infiltrators. And most importantly, the money tied up in all those rooms, as well as the cost of fixing any damage, would make both the owners and the underwriters nervous about vacating the premises and having us storm it.

  Of course, any professional could think of a lot better places to use. In fact, a true professional never takes hostages, and certainly not on enemy soil. These punks were conniving but not particularly intelligent. The only risk we faced was being eyeballed by one of their spotters. There was no real risk. Except, of course, the value of the hostage. They'd pinned everything on that. But that also meant they would have to think twice about killing her. They could wound her and make it impossible for her to compete, but killing her would not help their case. On the other hand, these shitheads were insane idiots to start with.

  The tech crew started listening for any signals transmitted inside the hotel, including phones. The hotel was advised to monitor all room to room calls. We wanted to confirm the little data we'd gotten from our capture, and ascertain that his cover was still good as his faked voice went out on schedule and in response to hails. The squad snuck in and started flowing up the access corridors and quietly cutting their way through walls to stay out of the corridors. The guests from those rooms were being housed in suites elsewhere, under guard of Blazers but with all the amenities. A couple of people with pending appointments groused slightly, but agreed to go along with the program out of decency. Despite the damage we were doing, the publicity from this would more than pay for the damage, which these non-capitalists would never have thought of but the hotel owner had. A true capitalist ghoul will sell his own intestines to the sharks. It would take most of a day, but they'd get into position.