Gavin Smith: Crysis: Escalation

Barnes turned to look up the valley. He could see the missile contrail against the blue of the sky. Both Wyverns were climbing at ninety degrees. Burning hard, outdistancing the missile easily. It looked like it was raining chaff and countermeasures as the missile detonated far from the two fighters.

‘Stinger?’ Barnes asked. Chavez nodded.

‘Venom two-four to Vulture two. That wasn’t a fucking SAM emplacement, it was a peasant with a tube. Now get fucking back here and finish the fucking job, over.’ Barnes knew that she would get reprimanded for that. He’d do what he could to shield her. ‘ Pindago asshole, how fucking difficult is it to deliver smart munitions?’

‘Take it easy, Chavez,’ T said quietly from behind them.

‘I’m going to find this puta and beat his bitch-ass to death with his own joystick.’ She went quiet, listening to incoming comms. She handed Barnes the handset for the sat-uplink. ‘They want to speak to you.’

Barnes took the handset and listened.

‘Venom leader to Broadsword Actual, received and understood.’ He passed the handset back to Chavez and then depressed the send button on his tac radio so that Earl would hear what he had to say as well. ‘Okay, the mission’s scrubbed…’

‘Pussies…’ Chavez muttered. Barnes gave her a look to let her know that was enough. He knew she felt that the air force had let them down but she was going to have to deal quietly.

‘We’ve been re-tasked. We’re exposed here, so we’re heading five klicks in country and I’ll brief you there. Earl, you’re leading the way.’

Barnes took a moment to check the map whilst Chavez and T kept a lookout. He gave Earl a grid reference and the three of them headed into the rainforest. Somewhere ahead of them Earl was leading the way.

Major Harold Winterman was staring at the newcomer like he’d just tracked dog shit into his command post. He turned back to look at the order he had just received from the Joint Chiefs of Staff and looked at that like he was holding dog shit.

Winterman’s people knew him to be a consummate professional. He had to be, to be entrusted with command of all special operations on Operation Scarface. They had never seen their commanding officer so close to losing his temper. They also had the feeling that his temper would be something to behold.

The focus of Winterman’s ire was stood in front of him in some crisply-pressed, new-looking jungle fatigues, but the man carried himself like he was more than capable of handling himself, and the way he’d spoken to Major Winterman suggested he’d better be.

‘Who or what the fuck is CELL?’ Winterman demanded.

‘Crynet Enforcement and Local Logistics,’ the tall, brown-haired, well-built man told him, ‘part of Hargreave Rasch.’

‘You’re military contractors?’ Winterman asked, barely containing himself. The man in the new fatigues nodded. ‘Then what. The. Fuck. Are you doing? Coming into my CP and giving me orders?’ Winterman was thinking about having this person shot. Actually, he was thinking about shooting him himself and then having the guards that had let him into his CP shot.

‘I’m not. The Joint Chiefs, that would be your employers, are. They are also commanding you to extend me every possible courtesy. In effect, I am in command here.’

‘I’m not sure that’s my reading of the orders…’ Winterman started angrily.

‘I don’t give a fuck.’ The newcomer snapped. There was a sharp intake of breath from Winterman’s people. Winterman actually took a step forward, as did the Delta operator who had been assigned to him as close protection. ‘You don’t like your orders, remove yourself from the CP and go and have a cry somewhere. We’ve measured cocks, mine’s bigger. Now, are we getting on with the matter at hand or do I have you arrested for disobeying a direct order?’

Winterman was shaking with fury. He badly wanted to hurt this man. Nobody had spoken to him like that since he’d been a junior officer. The vein on his forehead was pulsing with barely controlled rage.

‘I know you, don’t I?’ Winterman managed. He had definitely seen the man somewhere before, probably Iraq at a guess.

‘I’ve got no time for you special forces cowboys, but you’re the best I’ve got for the job in hand. My name is Commander Lockhart. You can call me “Sir’.’ He turned and gestured to a group of civilians who had been standing by the entrance to the CP and gestured for them to enter. The Rangers on guard halted them and then turned to look at Winterman. Reluctantly, the Major nodded and they were allowed in.

The five civilians were looking around for a place to set up their equipment but every inch of the CP seemed busy and in use and none of the military personal were very interested in helping out the newcomers.

Winterman, slowly mastering his anger, leant against one of the desks.

‘You’ve just scrubbed a mission that could have significantly aided our operation, not to mention the fact that you’ve wasted a lot of man-hours and resources and spoiled the air force’s opportunity to actually contribute.’ Winterman glanced angrily at the air force liaison officer, who looked away quickly. ‘This had better be good.’

‘I don’t give a fuck about Operation Scarface, and neither does anybody else in this room until I say otherwise. Venom got a camera with them?’

‘Yes,’ Winterman said through gritted teeth.

One of the civilians, a sweaty, balding, piggy-like man with glasses, whose very presence in his CP offended Winterman, gave Lockhart a piece of paper and handed him a tablet. Lockhart studied the tablet, looking less than pleased, shook his head and handed it back to the piggy-looking man. Lockhart handed the CP’s communications officer the piece of paper.

‘Task Venom to head to these coordinates. I want them to shoot footage and transmit it to me and me only. The freqs are on the paper. Understood?’ The communications officer turned to look at Winterman. Lockhart did the same.

‘I want to know what you’re doing with my men,’ the Major told the military contractor.

‘No, actually, you don’t.’ He seemed to be giving the situation some thought. He glanced down at the comms officer and then back to Winterman. ‘I will have you arrested if you do not follow my order. You will be court martialed for disobeying a direct order from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. That is assuming that you are still a serving officer in the United States Army.’

Winterman’s face was a mask of barely controlled rage as he turned to the communications officer and gave her the nod.

‘Ooo, hark at the pair on this one,’ a decidedly not-American voice said. Lockhart peered into the corner of the tent where the voice had come from. He saw a squat, heavily-built man with a shaved head leaning back on a chair, his combat boots up on a folding table. Lockhart looked at the Major. Winterman just shrugged. Along with a reluctant USAF, the British liaison had been Winterman’s biggest pain in the arse. The Major was reasonably sure that the SAS had inflicted the obnoxious cockney on him out of spite. They seemed to take a particular pleasure in winding up US special forces personnel. At least this time they weren’t rolling homemade bombs made from cola bottles into tents and showering the sleeping operators with soda.

‘Name and rank, soldier,’ Lockhart commanded. The British soldier shook his head apologetically.

‘I’m sorry mate, that’s classified and, unlike your man here,’ he pointed at the Major, ‘I’m not under the command of your Joint Chiefs of Staff.’

Winterman was gratified that the SAS trooper was even-handed with his obnoxiousness. Lockhart glared at the British soldier. The British soldier met the glare and just smiled.