They Also Serve . . .
Michael Z. Williamson
Reconnaissance is a critical, if nonglamorous aspect of military operations. The better the information available for intel, the better the battle planning. Jacob Drafts knew this and took the task seriously. He’d served years ago, before any of the recent fighting, but remembered his training.
None of which made it fun to lie in the cold and damp after an early fall rainstorm, watching a UN convoy at a rest halt.
The UN element was well protected, with gun trucks front, rear, and middle, drone escort, drivers to take over in case of system error—which had happened to several, thanks to Freehold hackers—and sophisticated layers of sensors, including audio, visual and IR, weaponfire sensors, the works. Most of the troops wore body armor. They’d learned that quickly.
There were dismounted security elements posted, while the unit set up a privacy screen for a latrine area.
Frank Tait, his neighbor, muttered, “Are they seriously putting up a screen to take a leak? Just whip it or squat and go.” Frank wasn’t a vet but was a very capable hunter. He could hide anywhere. He was very good for a man of twenty G-years.
Jacob said, “Yeah, a lot of Earth cultures are very, very repressed on nudity, even in the field or for medical exams.”
“How can a doc examine you if . . . never mind.” Their voices were low enough they shouldn’t be detected, but less talk was better, even a kilometer out.
Getting back to the task, Drafts took a survey of the troops through his glasses.
“I count twenty-three vehicles, sixty-five individuals. Sixty are regular UNPF. One is Space Force, probably an Intel attachment. Two are Airspace Force, probably intel or documentation. One is BuJustice, probably to coordinate with intel on captive ID, one is a BuMil contractor, probably regulatory oversight, or possibly environmental management. Fifteen of the regs are Russian, eight South American Combined Force, twelve are Federal Europe, four East Asian Co-Prosperity, the rest are North American.”
“You can tell all that from here?” Tait asked while squinting in the direction of the patrol. He’d written it all on a single sheet of notepaper. Nothing went on electronic devices, even if not connectable to a network.
“Yup,” he muttered. “Positive ID through their uniforms.”
Tait asked, “You can read their insignia at this range?”
“No. They’re each wearing their distinctive element camouflage.”
“‘Distincti . . . ’ are you fucking kidding me?” Frank barely kept it at a whisper.
“Each force, branch, and region have their own uniforms.”
“For their home environments?”
“For each environment they plan to be in,” he explained. “Six of the Russians are in Temperate Woodland Fractal pattern, nine are in Mixed Terrain dot pattern.”
“God, Goddess, Goat and dildo. What the fuck were they thinking?”
It was a good question. It was not only a ludicrous OPSEC failure, an INTELSEC failure, and a cohesion failure, it had to be expensive as fuck, and logistically bulky as all hell to have that much support for clothing.
He shrugged very slightly. “No clue. It’s retarded, but that’s what a bureaucratic government gets you . . . hold on.”
A couple of the loiterers were talking. He carefully swung the sensor mic that way and picked up the convo.
The younger one, European, at left asked, “Why would you want to stay here? It’s wilderness.” He sounded northern. Danish?
“Yeah, that’s part of it,” the older one, a North American sergeant, replied.
“What’s to like about wilderness? It’s creepy. There’s not a habitation within sight, probably not within an hour driving time.” Drafts noted the man had cut a sapling to use as a hiking staff. He’d gone about three meters into the woods to get it, and no further.
The American said, “The air is clean. The industry is low. Earth is what, ten years from complete climate collapse?”
“Don’t they keep pushing that back?”
“Sure, fine tuning, and holding it slightly back with good administration. It’s inevitable. Maybe here, too, but it will take longer.”
“It’s so heavy, though.” The Euro leaned on his staff and grabbed some candy from his pocket. He offered one to the American.
“Thanks. Higher gravity. Think of it as a workout.”
The Euro said, “Thinner air. Tougher on the lungs.”
“I’m from Colorado. This isn’t too bad.”
“Okay. Are you in supporting Tremena in the election?”
The American nodded. “I am. I like that she’s dedicated. She stopped going to school at nine, to devote her efforts to effecting change.”
“I didn’t realize she started that young. I could deal with her as SecGen. I think I prefer Max Find, but it depends on what they say in the next three months.”
“Is that when voting starts?”
The Euro nodded, “Yes, we have forty-five days now.”
“Huh. If we’re still here, I’ll vote through the phone verification.” He tapped his pocket. “I really don’t get the locals. They don’t seem to want any government at all. Textbook fascism.”
“I don’t understand, either. I know there’s a doc about their founding in the background brief.”
The NCO nodded. “First we’ve got to get this load forward. There’s a major push coming, I can feel it.”
“Yeah, we’re hauling a lot of stuff.”
“Not just stuff. Lots of it is ammo. Lethal ammo.”
“Damn, did Huff get clearance?”
The American leaned closer to his counterpart, but Jacob could still pick it up with the gun mic rested on a hump. “I don’t know, and we shouldn’t really talk about it, but if you look at the cases, they’re all hazmat marked for small arms or fireworks, and these aren’t fireworks.”
The Euro snorted, “They sort of are.”
The American snickered back. “Hah. True. It’s going to suck back on base, though.”
“Why?”
The American grimaced. “Aw, the LT had to mouth off to Ambaatu.”
“But he outranks—”
“Yes, and Amb was being a jackass, but when called out did bring up his background. Then the LT told him,” the sergeant looked around to make sure they were alone and lowered his voice, “that after seven hundred years it was time he got over slavery.”
The younger troop visibly tensed. “Aw, shit. Dumbkump.”
“Yeah, he tried to weasel out of it to the captain that his family was repressed by the Soviets. Which may be. But since he brought up the one, he can’t then use the other. It was never mentioned.”
“Right. So you were witness?”
The American frowned again. “Yes. I really don’t want to get involved, but it’s probably on the recorder there, and probably on the truck’s, too, and they know I was standing right there.”
“Fucking paperwork. It’s all we seem to do.”
Drafts almost sympathized with them.
“Yeah. It’s more trouble than the enemy. Okay, looks like we’re rolling. Later.”
“Yup, kick it.”
As the Aardvarks boarded their vehicles, Drafts took it very personally that some of them wanted to stay here.
Over your dead bodies, he thought.
He and Frank stayed slumped under the bush until the last truck was well onto the roadbed. Patience was a virtue for intel. None of this would spoil in a couple of segs.
This was a new road, cut through the hills and stabilized only the year before, to connect the small inland city of Aikainen to Jefferson. Now it was being used to supply a garrison to keep the locals in line. On the one hand, they needed the road, on the other hand, it was angering to have the enemy use it against them.
Once he felt it was very clear, he said, “Okay, let me call this in.”
His comm was already set for squirt transmission. In the cities, there were enough signals not to worry about any individual one, as long as the sender avoided key trigger words. Out here, any signal might be noticed and get an investigation, but short duration bursts minimized triangulation, and he’d be away from here shortly.
He tapped a code, waited for the screen prompt, and said, “Beth?”
Shortly, there was a response of, “Receiving.”
Beth might be part AI, might be part human. No one knew. You got a code, you called using it. You were given a code for the next time. If you lost the code or it was thought compromised, you had to ping the general line and get reidentified and reauthorized. It was secure for the rebels. He had no idea who was in operation outside his own unit, other than from occasional leaked reports of casualties and damage, and some scores that were too big for the UN to hide. They were hurting the invaders, but it would take time to organize good strikes against a superior-equipped enemy. Hence the recon.
“Hotel One Five Three. Copy.”
The processed female voice replied, “Ready.” That was probably automated.
He reported his observations using the reliable centuries-old SALUTE method—Size, Activity, Location, Unit, Time, Equipment. Troop estimate, convoy stop, grid, uniforms, insignia, ranks and probable taskings, the time, and the vehicle types and weapons. He attached the images and audio recording. He knew there were analysts compiling all this and building a good TO&E of the UN forces, and comparing casualties against it. They needed to build a database of numbers, movements, equipment, and disrupt what they could. The standing orders were not to pick fights with heavy combat arms units, or major bases. Soft targets like convoys, political missions, and remote sites were top priority. If they could demoralize the support, the contractors, the bureaurats, it would hopefully drive them to stay on their bases, and then . . . he had no idea, but that was the orders for now.
He got a single blip confirming receipt of his report, and unpowered and decoupled the comm.
“Let’s move.”
* * *
Three convoys stopped there over a week. The next one had light engineer support and dug in a field latrine with pits and mounted a water tank for handwashing. That was a potential sabotage target, but there was also a sensor mount, and almost certainly some high-level drones coasting on solar charging and eyeballing the area. Wasting resources on that would just reveal their presence and do little to harm the UN.
The second one was a bigger convoy and dropped off more facilities—a prefab overhead and some shelter sections for perimeter protection. This one was over thirty cargo trucks. The FOB a hundred klicks further, near Aikainen, was expanding. A bit more and they’d be able to handle regular air cargo with overwatch and not bother with ground transport. Not that it mattered. He and his small element couldn’t raid this one as it was. They could theoretically snipe, and they might inflict a few casualties and then there would be a force come looking. It was five K to their operations site, six more to their village, but enough sensors would follow DNA and broken brush and reveal it all. They had too many kids to want to risk it.
The enemy were moving in and settling down and the Freeholders were powerless to stop it.
After recon, they trod carefully through the brush. “We’ll need to change routes,” he noted. “Don’t want to wear a pattern through the forest.”
“We can follow just under the ridgeline of the rill over there.”
“Good idea.”
They moved in silence, which gave him time to brood.
* * *
The late-night knock at the door was expected, but he still checked the camera. Yes, it was a local delivery, and they were in uniform shirts. Even if no one trusted the UN to abide by its own Law of Armed Conflict, the uniforms helped. Anyone suborned by the UN would try to ditch the shirt or mark them to make it apparent. These were legit. He killed the lights inside and out and opened the door.
“Happy Birthday,” the one said, as they both laid boxes down. “Got to run.”
And they were gone.
He dragged the two packages inside, pulled the lights up thirty percent, and opened them.
Contents: Three more uniform shirts marked CENTRAL INDEPENDENCE GROUP over the left pocket, since he wanted the adult kids and his wife kitted out while doing any kind of support work. If the UN showed up, they’d already know this was a rebel cell, and there wouldn’t be any kind of court to argue the point, but being in uniform offered some protection under Geneva primarily, and also Hague and Mars. It also added to collective credibility of their resistance. They were a uniformed fighting force.
Two automatic carbines. An actual military radio with power cell, very useful. A crate of field rations. They could already freeze dry and inert pack here, but this saved labor. There was a brief update on reported and confirmed casualties to the UN, nothing about the rebels. He glanced it over, then tossed it in the fireplace for immediate destruction. There were several reports on UN expansion, far too few inflicted casualties, and he knew the rebels were taking hits hard.
The supplies were not enough to pretend to fight a war, even low intensity. It was about right for a weekend camping trip with the Scouts.
Still. “Lissa, Megan, Anst, you’ve got uniforms.” He handed over the shirts. Looking at the carbines, he said, “I think I’ll give one of these to Tait, and we’ll keep the other for now.”
Anst said, “Heck, Dad, we’ve got enough guns.”
“We do,” he agreed. “Well hid. But half of them aren’t in military calibers. Three are outdated and should be backup anyway, and I can always loan them out. We’re active troops, we’ll keep the frontline stuff.”
“Makes sense,” the young man agreed. His son was just eleven Freehold years, but thoughtful and reliable. He’d helped with some movements and kept his mouth shut.
Lissa pulled the shapeless shirt over her firm, shapely figure. “It’ll never catch on in the Garment District.” She smiled.
“I like it,” he said. He did. Though he liked her in anything. She was fit, curvy, and sexy as hell. Her profession was process automation. There was little of that out here now. They were only farmers because they had a house in the area and wanted to avoid the city.
Megan’s shirt was loose and floppy. She still had the graceful slenderness of youth, though she’d probably take after her mother very soon. Anst was a little wiry but building muscle fast.
“We wear these all the time when engaged in anything related to the war,” he reminded them. “Even if it’s just loading a truck or delivering a message. We’re a declared military force, and hopefully we get treated as such.”
They all nodded.
“Tomorrow we’ll camouflage print them. Though I’d love a spare khaki so we can work outside and any drones not pay much attention.”
“Until they figure out what the color means,” Megan noted.
“Yes, Meg, but if a hundred noncombatants all wear khaki, and ten of us have unit patches, it means they have to do a lot more digging for target ID.”
As long as they don’t just blow everyone away, he carefully didn’t say.
* * *
The next convoy felt safe enough for the troops to take a longer break, an Earth hour, and hack around in the woods cutting hiking staffs, something most of them couldn’t do on Earth. Combat ecology regs notwithstanding, they wanted souvenirs.
This convoy was still bigger. The rest point now had a latrine, they had a semi-staged power recharge, and there was a second sensor tower that would be hard for rebels to work around. It was a methodical buildup as firebases grew further out from the capital.
Tait said, “I swear, we’ve got enough locals to knock over one of these convoys. If only we had the support to get us close . . . do you agree?”
“Small arms are enough, but we’d have to be right up among them, and their sensors are better than ours.” He pointed to the tower. “That will detect movement if we get close enough.”
“It’s aggravating.”
“Also, they’d have a . . . wait.” He was going to mention fire support. But the UN couldn’t.
“What?” Tait prompted.
“They could have artillery or an air strike on location in a couple of segs. But they can’t do that if their own troops are in the engagement area.”
“Okay.”
“How big are your balls for this?”
Frank whispered back, “What do you have in mind?”
“How many different uniforms were in that last convoy?”
“Is this a quiz? It was . . . seventeen.”
“So who’d notice number eighteen?”
The man stuttered. “You’re kidding.”
“I am not. They lollygag in the woods. When they start recall, walk in, brass balls, get among them so they can’t shoot, secure as many vehicles as we can, drive balls out.”
“They’ll see it’s the wrong uniform,” he said, tugging at his shirt.
“I guarantee they won’t. At most it will be, ‘That’s odd, it almost looks like Oceania Federation camo.’ We use similar colors with a bit more blue. They have no reason to expect otherwise. It’s a shame there aren’t more troops from off-Earth or we’d do even better.”
“And sensors for their ID?”
“Yeah, that’s an issue, but it doesn’t have a way to spotlight us that I know of. Not in daylight. It might be able to project laser dots, but those are hard to see.”
“So we just walk in, and either wait for the freakout or start shooting, hijack the trucks and roll?”
“We need to expect some resistance and casualties,” he said with a deep, sober breath. “But yes.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yeah.”
Frank shrugged. “Well, shit, my balls are that big. I’ll even crack dirty jokes as we meet them.”
* * *
Kilometers away from either home or the OP, he powered up the encrypted radio. It appeared to be a rough-built copy of the last-generation EC-45/2, which was more advanced than the ’43 he’d trained on, but not as sophisticated as modern gear. It should be secure enough for short, coded transmissions.
He spent a lot of time under featherferns, he realized. They gave a pleasant shadow and were always near a damp spot, but he was used to that. The smell was rather sour, but it faded into the background after he got used to it.
He selected the band, punched for connection, and waited.
It was only moments before he received a reply of, “This is Beth.”
He said, “Need permission for an active operation.”
“Describe.”
He summarized as vaguely as possible, as he’d rehearsed, carefully having no written notes. “We believe we can get among the next element and hijack some vehicles. We’d try for the gun trucks and sensor first, then as many cargo carriers as possible.”
The voice replied, “Stand by.”
The freq went silent for a lengthy time. He knew what was COMSEC. Even encrypted radios could be cracked or tracked.
It was three segs before a reply. “You are authorized this operation between four and seven days from now, if opportunity exists. It is important to follow through. This has been added to an op plan.”
“MR.” Message received.
He leaned back and sighed.
He muttered to himself and to Tait, “Okay, so now we’re committed to bringing in some goods. I gather Intel has some idea what is on those trucks and is hoping to share the wealth.”
* * *
His combat element was seven men and two women, and his living room was crowded. Two of them had brought food, so it wasn’t going to wreck his supplies too badly.
All were veterans except Frank, whom he could vouch for. All were people he knew had reason to hate the UN beyond the fact it had invaded their home. Three had a record of combat against the UN, two others were Mtali vets. The rest, including himself, hadn’t seen combat, but there was only one man who had not been engaged in at least recon and sabotage, and his father had died in the attack on Heilbrun base. There was always risk of a leak in an insurgent cell, but this was as tight as they could get.
They’d be outnumbered about 12:1.
They had two versions of rifles. That wasn’t a concern. The four men without military rifles couldn’t reasonably carry civilian rifles. It would stand out, given that the convoy had a security element, but was otherwise unarmed. So they had five riflemen and four without.
“You guys will have to start with pistols and scavenge,” he said. “But I’ll make sure I try to find something you can use ASAP.”
“Not a problem.” Vitori shrugged, though he looked tense. It was his father who had been lost. “I can go straight for a vehicle. The cab offers some cover once it’s been cleared.”
“Yeah, it does.”
His support element was both his kids, and eight others. They were all young adults of the combat element, so probably very reliable, but young adults were prone to be flaky, persuadable, or just scared. They were to remain uphill until vehicles were secured. Best case, seventeen trucks out of convoys that had been forty or more.
Lissa laid out the upgraded uniform shirts.
“So we took the issue khaki,” he noted, “and then transfer printed a variation of our standard camo. We changed the colors and shapes slightly, so it won’t jump out as ours, but it’s a good pattern for these woods. We’ve all got unit ID.” He pointed to the sewn-on tag that read CENTRAL INDEPENDENCE GROUP. “And our Provisional Forces official notice to all parties and the International Red Emblem states that we can camo the shirts to suit, as long as they’re this base style, and/or are tagged with the unit. Not that I expect the Aardvark fucks will give a crap, but we’ve gone through the motion.”
He paused, then said, “More importantly, it’s similar to several UN elements that I’m informed are on planet, but none that I’ve seen so far on these routes. We won’t have similar-looking hostiles. That makes IFF easy. Looks like a Freeholder, don’t shoot. Looks like anyone else, shoot. The end.”
Vitori asked, “The next convoy is in the afternoon?”
“I expect so, based on pattern. They’ve always been daytime. They have a laager to reach for night. Worst case, if we tie them up, they’ll be out after dark, and maybe someone else can fuck with them. Now, here’s the patterns of vehicles I’ve seen so far . . . ”
He switched to drawing charts and schematics of the vehicles and their stops. All by hand, all to be burned once done.
* * *
He and Frank waited behind a rock, which had been far enough uphill to be ignored by every UNO so far but was close enough to what they considered as their limit to let him move among them in a handful of seconds. The rest of the element were scattered near trees and in a depression just slightly higher up. They were uniformed, wearing commphone headsets clipped in place, and five of them slung rifles, while four had hidden pistols. Behind them were the additional drivers including Megan and Anst. They were to wait for the attack to resolve before boarding.
He watched discreetly, trying to decide if he should let the Aardvarks see him moving about, or wait for the last moment.
That was a better choice. They would figure out the ruse eventually, and they sucked at woodcraft. They had no idea where each other was and shouted back and forth.
He heard one.
“Ramon?”
Ramon replied, “Yeah, down here by the . . . sort of ditch. A gully, I think.”
The first said, “I see you. Check out this mess of baby trees. These are good stuff.”
Ramon was enthusiastic. “Hell yeah! Start chopping. We’ll keep the best and trade the rest.”
Man, the Aardvarks loved their hiking staffs. Though he had to admit that bluemaple saplings were strong and had nice grain.
It was a pity it wasn’t a few weeks later. The Rippers would go into a mating frenzy and eat their share of Unos. Then in spring they’d be scrambling for food for the newborns. He planned to remain inside during those times. It was a beautiful early fall, instead, varying from cool to warm, and pleasant. Io was ahead of the convoy, shining along the roadway.
Over a vehicle loudspeaker, someone announced, “Five minutes until Mount Up. Everyone return to convoy.”
He drew a slow, deep breath, checked his rifle, clicked his phone to local broadcast, grabbed his own fresh-cut hiking staff, and rose carefully. He started walking downslope, and the rest of the element followed in staggered formation.
He was nervous about the fact they were in different pants, khaki or brown, or tan under the printed camo overlay. The colors didn’t set right. The shirts all had the same pattern, but the printing had been done in sections 40cm square, and the edges of the pattern butted together. They also had different weapons and no helmets, though a lot of the convoy weren’t wearing theirs anyway. It wasn’t perfect, but it was probably good enough.
It had better be. The key was to act determinedly nonchalant.
Troops milled about, occasionally glancing his way then ignoring him. He led the short Freehold squad onto the cut, then the flat of the improvised rest stop. He saw now how much trash the intruders had tossed onto the ground. UN regs prohibited that, and it was a classless move. That pretty much summed them up.
He made a point of not walking too fast, and of nodding pre-emptively to anyone they passed. They had plenty of time, and it took only a seg to get everyone near the vehicles, and largely between the trucks and the UN crews. There were occasional glances, but no one showed much interest beyond the fact it was an element in a matching uniform, just like the others.
* * *
Sergeant Second Class Xander Blaylock thought it neat to be in actual woods. You could tell these didn’t have a regular human presence. Well, a few convoys, but no actual stripping and building. They weren’t even recovered woods, like those in Environmental Reconstruction Zones. This was raw wilderness.
Yeah, he needed a hiking staff. He didn’t really hike, but one would look good on a day walk on the track, and Gibbs in the structural shop could do a good job of carving them into figures. He wanted one with a root bulb so there was lots of material. That sapling there . . .
He pulled out the pocket saw he’d bought at the Exchange, trimmed off several branches and the top. It was longer than it would be finished, which was perfect. Then he shoved it back and forth, getting a bit of thrill from disrupting an actual tree. From his spare ammo pouch, because they only had one mag each, he pulled a folding trowel, and dug dirt and weed tendrils away from the roots. He hoped nothing here was a skin toxin.
The roots were only a centimeter or two thick, and he was able to saw, rip, pull, saw, and yank until he had the knotty bulb out. And damn, that looked like a spiked weapon. Morningstar? But it would be better carved into some dragon or something.
His radio announced, “Five minutes! Recall and prepare to board!” Then someone repeated the advisory by voice, for extra safety.
Yeah, he didn’t want to run late. Support troops had a rep, and this unit was trying to look professional. He banged the sapling base against a tree to shake more dirt off and headed back downslope.
The woods were full of troops. Hiking staffs were the souvenir of choice, and there was even a way to get them back legally. Pay a local a couple of marks, have them print a receipt claiming they sold it, and it was an Exempted Artifact, not an eco violation. Though a handful of people had just taken some pics in the deep woods. Those wouldn’t need any clearance.
The Russians and the far north North Americans seemed pretty casual about deep woods, as did the FennoScand contingent. For everyone else, it was an exotic thrill.
He wondered about that element, who were probably Asian, based on the camo. How did this compare to any rainforest preserves?
They had darker skin, buff, so not Southeast. That camo pattern was unfamiliar, but definitely a wet woodland multilayer. It worked very well here. Who wore something like that?
They redrew fast, he’d give them that. They’d already cordoned the rear and were expanding forward around the convoy. They were supposed to be aligned on the left side. No, some of them were armed, so they were the security detail, and the regular troops were mixed up with them.
Had he seen them at the first stop?
A couple of them spoke in firm tones. What accent was that?
“Oh, sh—”
* * *
Here goes, Drafts thought. This was war, but he was about to execute enemy soldiers with as little emotion as he’d have butchering a hog.
Less. Hogs are of benefit to us and have thoughts and feelings in common.
He let the staff hang on his arm, casually swung his carbine, continued into a raise to his shoulder, and started shooting.
He was amazed at how easy it was. Headshot, headshot, headshot, and three of them were down like sacks, brains splattered inside their helmets. A fourth turned to run and he aimed carefully, getting her above her body armor, right up under the atlas. She didn’t have a helmet and the round erupted out the crown of her skull. The body flopped and didn’t twitch.
All around there was shooting, and screaming, and then different shooting, as the armed members of the convoy finally returned fire.
Suddenly it was an ugly scramble, with both groups running for the trucks, some of the Aardvarks running for the woods where the support element could safely get in a few shots, others trying to take cover underneath the vehicles. He watched one guy stand flapping his arms and shrieking, mouth open wide, until one of his people put a bullet through it.
He saw movement and dove for the ground, and a stickynet went right overhead. Some of the goop dripped and stuck to his sleeve in a clingy puddle. He rolled and smashed it into the dirt. If he contaminated it enough, it wouldn’t pin his arm to his side or a truck when he brushed past.
Someone right next to the vehicle shot the projector operator, but there was a charge loaded, and it fired as the Uno died. The mass of web slammed the Freeholder down, breath knocked out, a bundle of gluey gunk on his chest, but luckily not on his face. It was Vitori. He couldn’t help the man at this second, so he made note and kept moving.
The convoy’s rear weapon was a stun cannon, zapping out blasts of voltage in blue ionized channels. One charge barely winged Sandra Twana, a Mtali vet, who yelped, shrieked, growled and swore. She was reduced to a limp with everything below her left hip overloaded and unresponsive. He wondered if it still hurt like hell or was numb. She swore again as she stumbled and shot, so it probably hurt. It took her three more bullets, but she hit something and the zaps stopped.
It started so easily and was pure chaos so rapidly. He remembered he’d been counting on the confusion. The UN had no real idea who was who, shooting at whom. His people knew. But when they all clustered together or ran around mindlessly . . .
At least twenty Aardvarks were down dead or bleeding out, and a lot more of them screamed. They obviously hadn’t encountered armed resistance on planet yet.
However, their security element had switched to rifles, and now rounds snapped past.
Despite his earlier pep talk, he felt awful blowing away the unarmed pogs, but they were uniformed military, and this was war. Killing the drivers was an effective way to pin the convoy in place. He got two more. A lot of them were in the woods or across the road cut now, and not effective. Several had been netted by their own security, and one was on the ground in convulsions from neural lash. That left fewer than eight active Freeholders against a similar number of armed escorts, who had much better gear and position.
It was also necessary to gain control of the vehicles. He sprinted for the front, shot at two more Aardvarks and hit one of them in the shoulder as he passed two vehicles. He leapt for the driver side steps on the lead truck. Frank followed to take charge of the gun mount.
A burst of rifle fire cut him off, he flinched, cringed, tottered backward and got behind a wheel fast. Frank . . . was alive, and under the cab.
Then he heard the angry buzzing sound of escort drones moving in close. They had limited firepower—about like a rifle—but he was unarmored.
He hunkered behind the dual wheel, hoping the drones would move past. He’d only seen them patrol in pairs front and rear. There were several more now, sounding like horror-sized hornets.
He heard one of the Unos shouting into his commo, “ . . . multiple rebel combatants with lethal weapons. Request support element ASAP. Enemy appears to be wearing Oceania camouflage, note war crime.”
He had a moment to think, and that’s how the fuckers will report it in the media. It’s not even actually one of our camos, it’s just something we came up with. But they’ll make us out to be monsters.
Yes, they had the convoy pinned, but they didn’t have control of the vehicles. They hadn’t seized any of the support weapons, so now the Freeholders were hiding under the trucks, too. Though some of his people—it looked like Paris and old man Emmett were dodging around risking fire while dishing it out. Good.
He shimmied around and there was an Uno, who raised a thumb and asked, “Truce?”
Huh? Drafts shot him, careful to avoid damaging the wheel.
Another guy dove behind the wheels across from him.
“Fuck, was that one of them?” he asked. “I figured he w—oooooh, shit!”
The kid was out and running further back. Drafts tried for a shot.
Then the truck hummed and rolled.
Only about a meter, but shit, this was bad.
He figured he was safer just outside the wheels, only exposed on half an arc, and there was growth in the ditch that would help. He rolled over and over, let gravity pull him into the hollow.
Apparently, despite a latrine built on site, a bunch of people had pissed here.
He snagged the radio from his back, almost getting stuck to it with the goop, which he rolled through grass, ripping blue-green blades free but keeping that mess coated. He powered the radio up and plugged it into his headset.
“Beth, Operation Rolling Weasel is pinned down and needs support or will have to abort.”
The response was almost instant. “Keep engaged and wait for support.”
Was that just an automated botponse?
He asked, “Confirmed support?”
“Yes, confirmed,” was the reply.
Alright.
He got his legs under him, ready to sprint, shouted into his headset, “Freeholders, continue the attack,” and dug in feet and moved before the enemy located him.
There was a flurry of fire, and it looked like one of the Aardvark guards was down. Yes. And Genske had the man’s rifle now.
It was Simon Says, redone as Sergeant Says. What the hell, it worked.
But as Genske ran, a drone zigged past and shot. But it missed. Barely, but a miss.
Another one homed in on his movement, and he decided to charge it and dodge as the best option. There was no cover handy.
A round cracked past his ear. Another miss. He didn’t think another adrenaline dump was possible, but he felt one. Icy shock through his entire body.
The drones weren’t very accurate. Or rather, were perfectly inaccurate. Their fire consistently missed by several centimeters. Almost as if . . .
. . . Beth had them hacked just enough to make it look good.
He shouted into his headset, “Stay engaged! We have support!” He wasn’t sure how much, but their orders were to make this work, and even retired, he was still a gods damned soldier.
Beth’s voice spoke urgently, probably a processed human operator.
“Cover, cover, cover!”
“Freehold get down!” he shouted, and dove for the scraped surface, then scrambled back toward the trucks. It made him a slow, fat, target, but the trucks were their mission here. Besides, neither side was going to blow them up.
He heard cacaphonic booms and felt air disturbance. Massive cannon fire. Shit. What did the UN have? And how could he get everyone out?
No, that fire was targeting the forward gun truck. Armor spalled and projectiles splattered. The enclosed turret took hits, as did its gun. Probably a combat kill, no longer effective.
The next burst targeted the power pack, then swept toward the driver compartment. He’d hoped they’d salvage that, but since it appeared to carry non-lethal weapons only, the cargo was more valuable.
He looked around but couldn’t see anything. It probably wasn’t an armor unit. The Freehold had little enough to start with. Probably some support trucks. He didn’t see anything airborne. He squinted forward and saw movement.
Was that it?
One combat buggy, four guys bristling with gear, strapped to it with snatch cords. They all had carbines, pistols, swords, armor, integrated helmet comms, two swivel-mounted MGs on the roll bars, one mounted abaft the driver. That was an entire case of anti-armor missiles on the rear rack. They had to be doing eighty klicks, off road, on coarse terrain.
The forward gunner was targeting the vehicles. The side mount was hosing the shit out of the dismounted troops on the plain.
The guy in the rear stood bouncing on his knees against the vehicle’s jolts, waving the muzzle of a launcher and then there was a BangThump of it firing and a cloud of countermass debris out the rear. A few meters out the sustainer engine cut in with a Hisshhh.
The rear gun truck exploded.
The shooter dropped the launcher, grabbed the third gun, and started pouring fire at the Freeholders.
Drafts tried to hug the wheel even closer. Fuck. The gunner didn’t recognize them as . . . no, wait. He was blasting a cordon between them and the UN, and driving the enemy into the woods, back and away from the vehicles, hosing them clear. The enemy were being driven away and running from their own vehicles.
A relayed message from Beth shouted at him to, “Get aboard and drive! Fast!”
He shouted into his mic to the support element. “Board and drive now! Now! Now!”
He waved a come on and swarmed the second vehicle. As he reached it, he tripped and slammed into the corrugated step, breaking his fall with his hands and his face.
Godsdamn, that hurt.
Frank took the other side. Movement underneath resolved as one of the crew, hiding more than anything, behind the wheels. He shrugged, raised his carbine in burning, throbbing hands, paused, and put a round right up the spine. The kid screamed, flopped, convulsed, and died.
Shit. He probably wasn’t actually a threat but fuck it. Enemy uniform, battle, shoot.
He leapt onto the step, into the cab, hoping it wasn’t on some sort of biometric control. He saw the control panel and realized it had been, but that entire box was disabled. Likely, the troops had made the smart decision that any driver was better than no driver in an emergency. Except, of course, in a hijacking.
He punched start, swiped the instruments to whatever default they were set for, grabbed the shift and shoved it into Drive. He let it idle, eased into the throttle to gauge the motor, and then gunned it hard. The truck dropped into a depression, banged against the far lip, whipping his neck. It bounced out, bounded over the next one, and he was away, driving past the ruins of the lead gun truck that belched flame and thick, oily smoke with the stink of burning polymer.
Then he took a quick glance at his hands. Several scrapes, some raw flesh, a jagged puncture tear. All superficial, all painful. He gingerly felt his face. Upper lip swollen and dripping blood, and two teeth feeling loose and electric on the nerves. His shirt stank of dirt and urine residue from the ditch.
He’d live. He drove hard, Frank shooting out the window at something. Behind him, other vehicles detoured around the deadlined ones, and formed a new convoy.
“Beth, we have a casualty down with an entire stickyweb on his torso. He’ll need to be cut loose and probably evacced from the impact. Location approx vehicle five.”
“Acknowledged.” A few moments later, the voice added, “The support element has him.”
He kept driving. He hoped the support element had managed to assist the additional drivers, especially his kids. Now it was even more dangerous, because the enemy knew the convoy was compromised, and could just have air support blow them into cratered debris. Trucks and supplies were only money to Earth. Enemy combatants were worth it.
They had to make it three kilometers undamaged, then turn off.
Into his ears, Beth relayed, “You have a hanger on. Stand by for fire.”
The buggy pulled alongside, one of the troops pointed and shot, and nodded into the side mirror. That was it.
Frank asked, “Where are we turning?”
“About three hundred meters ahead, fast.” His voice was muffled by the bruised and bleeding lip. He added, “Can you carefully cut off this sleeve with the prison goo on it and wad it up for later disposal?”
“Yeah, hold on.” Frank pulled out his pocket tool, flicked open a blade, leaned halfway across Drafts, not bumping his damaged jaw. Carefully he slit and ringed the sleeve. He folded the clean fabric over the glue and placed the bundle on the dash. Jacob’s shirt was still sticky with blood from his jaw.
They were just approaching the turnoff, which was barely visible.
Frank said, “That’s a trailer track.” At best. It was rutted, narrow, and half overgrown.
“Yes, there.”
Nothing to do but drive.
Screaming engines overhead marked a UN combat vertol, but it didn’t shoot. Probably, they weren’t sure how many survivors there were.
But that meant some sort of response would be along quickly. He wasn’t sure what all was planned, though he assumed looting of the trucks.
The track narrowed and he slowed, slipping in and out of ruts, driving through low spots and mud puddles, brush and limbs smacking and scraping the sides. Every bump hurt. It was dark under the thick, subtropical growth. It had a familiar smell of humid rot and decay. Orange molds fought with blue and green leaves.
Ahead, someone in uniform held up a hand and he slowed and stopped.
The bushes started moving, and he flipped out, grabbing for his carbine, before realizing they were all either Freehold Forces or local resistance. Some of the shirts were home dyed. Another militia element.
He heard thumps as the hatches opened, and the truck swayed. Damn, they were looting it like lowenas on a dead bison. He wasn’t sure how they were carrying it all, then he saw . . .
Bicycles. And wheelbarrows. Everything was being lashed or carted, and then walked off into the woods. He saw one bike with two rods tied to the bars—one for steering, one for caliper braking. It had two hundred kilograms of ammo crates in the panniers, and one hundred more in the kid car towed behind it.
In under a seg the truck was stripped even of the pioneer tools, and someone knocked on the door. He opened it.
“Commo,” a cheerful grin said. It resolved as a very dark woman in very dark face paint in a home-brewed gray camo shirt. Her tag read DARKWOOD PROVISIONAL GUARD and had two chevrons on the pocket flap.
“Bringing or taking?”
She held up a wrecking tool. “Taking,” she said.
Drafts shifted over, and in seconds the chick leaned over him, broke the dash cover, yanked out the entire commo assembly, chopped the power cable with cutters, and shimmied back out.
“I need a medic when one is free,” he said, pointing at his lip.
“I’ll relay,” she agreed.
As he watched, someone loaded two of the truck’s power cells into a cart and rolled them off. Damn, this was going to be a stripped hulk before they were done.
In fact, they were done. The movement receded, and everything was quiet.
The road guard ahead waved and came forward.
“On foot, fast. We’ll have transport in a bit.” He produced a spray canister and let a cloud fly inside the cab. The smell was strong. Drafts deduced it was a DNA solvent to break down residue and make tracking harder.
They slogged through the woods, alternating between game paths, trickling waterways, and across hard ground.
A woman ran up alongside.
“Medic,” she announced. “Yeah, that’s a mess. No, keep walking.” He’d paused but resumed.
“Okay,” she said. “General analgesic, and I’ve got wound spray. Left hand.”
He held it up, she spritzed it, and it burned even more. He winced but didn’t say anything.
“Right hand.”
He held it over and she sprayed that one.
“Now pause a moment, close eyes, this is going to hurt.”
He felt her fingers roll his lip up and almost yelled through the grimace. The spray made him twitch and shake. It stank of disinfectant and then his nose lost sensation and smell, too.
“That’s it for now. We’ll follow up on the teeth later, or your dentist can.”
“Fanks,” he acknowledged with a grunt. His lip was already going numb. He resumed walking so he wouldn’t fall over from pain and fatigue.
He noticed the muscle-powered transport gradually moved onto powerbikes, a couple of terrain buggies, several four-wheel haulers, and eventually a couple of trucks. He hoped it was fast enough and discreet enough the UN didn’t track everyone down.
Eventually someone rolled up on one of the four-wheelers, slapped the rear saddle, and said, “Climb on.”
He swung his leg over, snapped the belt, slung his rifle across his chest, and grabbed the edge of the right cargo pannier. The guy took off.
The motor was mostly silent. The wheels made a lot of noise. This could definitely be tracked if the UN wanted to expend the resources, but they were a couple of kilometers from the abandoned convoy, which was several kilometers from the turnoff, which was three kilometers from the ambush. He figured the rebel leadership was assuming that was sufficient radius to be statistically safe. How many investigators would the enemy risk when they’d already lost a convoy? And did any components of those trucks remain?
It was of interest to him, but if he never knew, he couldn’t tell.
Besides, the ride hurt his teeth. A lot.
It was dusk, near dark, when he was dropped off a few hundred meters from his house and slogged across two fields to reach it. Everything looked normal. Everything was. The kids were already here, mucky but unharmed.
“I got one, Dad!” Megan grinned. “Got his helmet, too!” She held it up.
Anst said, “I think I had the main ammo truck. It was packed.”
He grinned at that. “Well done. We’ll go over it later.” He was proud of them, and now the element had more experienced combatants.
Anst looked sober as he added, “We lost one. Frank Tait said Mr. Emmett got hit. They brought him home to bury.”
“Damn. Well, he was a brave man, and we’re better to have known him. I just hope he’s not tracked too easily. That could bring attention to the rest of us.” He realized they’d have to make excuses for the old man being dead, and hope to avoid any detailed exams.
Lissa had food, skin treatment, and quickly found painkillers and a cold compress. She looked like the traditional farmer’s wife the UN hated and some troops envied and appeared harmless except for the uniform shirt. While he ate, she cleaned the weapons, checked the loads, and stowed them back in the concealed box next to the house’s power and utility conduit, where they were least likely to trigger a scan. She helped him with dinner, and even helped him shower.
* * *
Dr. Wrege didn’t ask how his lip and teeth got beaten, didn’t even make a comment about drinking and mouthing off. He just noted, “They’re mostly sound, but there was some impact trauma to the jaw. I’ve injected some reconstructor nanos and some polymer reinforcement. You need to keep that splint on the teeth for the next day. Sip liquids. It should be fine after that.”
“Thankth, doc. How mush?”
“Eh, this one’s free,” Wrege said without even looking up from his log screen.
“Thankth.”
“Don’t mention it.”
He most certainly wouldn’t.
* * *
It was back to farm work, dirty, tiring, and lagging due to the previous activities. Even with coordinate machines to handle the crops, the animals required a certain amount of hands on. He was still learning, still toughening up. But he’d rather deal with animal shit than be in the city, that much closer to the UN bureaucrats and their bullshit.
He was back inside late, showered, and sipping some high-proof vodka with vegetable juice to get some minerals and take the remaining edge off his teeth when there was a knock at the back door. He stiffened.
“No, that’s them,” Lissa said. She went back, nodded at the screen, and opened the door.
He vaguely recognized his woodland chauffeur from the day before, and one of the other wreckers.
The man said, “We have a crate here for you.”
This time the crate contained ten UN rifles with three magazines each. Someone else carried in a package in a waterproof cover, which revealed a squad machine gun. Three light anti-armor missiles. A case of mixed standard batteries and powercells. Four sets of torso armor and helmets.
The first one held up a radio.
“UN commo rehacked, can be found when on with a specific search, receiver only. You can listen in to certain transmissions, and its ID range is short.”
“Most trif.” He grinned. This was a respectable amount of gear for a squad. If another convoy came through, he’d find a different location to enfilade and stop it, away from support. If not, they’d find one of the small outposts and raid and harass it.
They’d been declared combatants in name only. Now they could really fight.