Orson Card - Earth unavare

“I’ll concede that some may jump at the chance for more action,” said Napatu, “but why would we forfeit our best soldiers to another army outside our own jurisdiction?”

“Because MOPs allows New Zealand to have a hand in global stability without worrying about political ramifications, sir. Send a brigade of New Zealanders into North Africa, and the political fallout could be catastrophic. Suddenly New Zealand is the bully of the world. But send a few New Zealanders who are a part of an international military unit seeking to preserve human rights, and there is little to no fallout. No one can accuse New Zealand of imperialism. Any action taken by MOPs is clearly an act of global goodwill.”

“There are those who say MOPs are the dogs of the West, Captain O’Toole, that you boys are nothing more than grunts for American intelligence. Puppets of the CIA nicely disguised as a mini-international coalition.”

Wit shrugged. “There are also those who say we are soulless child murderers carrying out the personal vendettas of the current U.S. administration. It’s propaganda, Colonel. You and I both know who we are and what we do.”

Napatu was quiet a moment. Wit remained silent, letting the man think it through, though he knew Napatu would come around.

Finally, Napatu said, “Who did you have in mind?”

Wit removed his handheld from his pocket and set the device on the table in front of him. He extended the arms on the sides and the thin bar at the top and turned on the holo. A wall of data with photos and records of five servicemen floated in space above him. Wit turned the device around so it faced Napatu.

“There are five of your men we’d like to screen.”

“Screen?”

“A capabilities test, sir. We want the best and most willing candidates. If all five pass our screening and demonstrate an eagerness to serve, then we will gladly take them all. If none pass, we will thank them and you for your time and not bother you further. It’s that simple.”

Colonel Napatu scanned the names and didn’t show any surprise until he reached the last of the five, the youngest and smallest of the group. He was the most unlikely pick simply because of his inexperience. He deserved to be among the SAS like any other man in the unit, but he wasn’t battled-tested like the other four. He had only been with the SAS for five months and was as green as they came.

“You can have your pick of any of my men,” said Napatu, “some of them proven warriors with flawless service records and the highest marks. And yet you choose this one, a greenie?”

“Yes, sir,” said Wit. “We are very interested in Lieutenant Mazer Rackham.”

The following morning, just after dawn, Wit stood in a small grassy valley two hours northeast of Papakura. Around him, beyond the valley, was the dense Mataitai Forest with its tall Tanekaha trees and vibrant broadleaf ferns. Five men stood in front of Wit at attention, their eyes forward, their feet at a forty-five-degree angle, heels together. They wore military-issued T-shirts, fatigue pants, and solemn expressions. Wit had left them standing that way, unflinching in the morning chill, for the better part of an hour.

Wit looked at each man in turn. They were all physically strong, but only two of them were the heavily muscled bodybuilding types. Two others were of average height and build, and the last, a Maori, Mazer Rackham, was lean and slightly smaller.

Size mattered little in the Special Forces, however. In fact, thick upper bodies and large arms might give you greater strength, but they also made you an easier target and harder to conceal, not to mention top-heavy and less nimble. Wit, who was larger than any of these men, knew all this from experience. He had suffered enough broken noses in sparring matches with men half his size to know that bigger soldiers weren’t necessarily better ones.

The handheld in Wit’s pocket vibrated, signaling that his men were in position. Showtime.

Wit faced the five soldiers. “Good morning, gentlemen. You know who I am, and you know why you’re here. This morning we will conduct a preliminary exercise. If you pass, you are eligible for a screening. Let me emphasize that whether you pass that screening or not, you can take pride in knowing that you were selected from the entire New Zealand Defence Force to participate in these proceedings. You represent the highest degree of readiness and training, and are a credit to your country.”

The men kept their eyes forward, showing no emotion.

“While we’ve been standing here enjoying the lovely nippy morning,” said Wit, “my teammates have been hiding in the forests around us. I have just received a confirmation that they are ready to begin and are eager to embarrass you by making you fail. On the ground in front of you are forty-kilo rucksacks. You will each carry one of these to a safe house five kilometers from here. The coordinates of the safe house as well as a map and compass are in your rucksacks. Also in front of you is your weapon, a small automatic rifle that you likely have never handled. It is unique to MOPs. It goes by many names, the Flatliner, the Angel Maker, or my personal favorite, the Hell Ticket, since it sends so many of our unfortunate enemies on a one-way trip to the devil himself. Its technical name, however, is the P87, and if you join us, gentlemen, it will become your truest and most devoted companion, never leaving your side. You will pee with it, eat oatmeal with it, shower with it, and sleep with it. Don’t think of it as your weapon. Think of it as the appendage you never knew you had. In the SAS you are trained on many unconventional weapons, but the P87, once you learn its features, may surprise even you.

“But since this is an exercise and not an actual engagement, your P87 is loaded with twenty spider rounds.” Wit held up a red pellet. “Spider rounds are not lethal, but they will incapacitate you. If struck, you will receive an electric shock that is hard to forget. If any of you have a pacemaker or are pregnant, I invite you to withdraw.”

A few of the men cracked a smile.

“Ah,” said Wit. “You’re not zombies, after all.” He showed them the pellet again. “My teammates are equipped with these same rounds. If you are struck, and believe me, you will know it, your participation in the exercise is over. Unlike real warfare, you are instructed to leave your wounded team members behind. If one of you drops, keep moving. Your mission is not to get your team to the safe house. Your mission is to get me to the safe house. I will be playing the role of a diplomat you have been assigned to protect. Should I be wounded, the exercise is over. Like my men hiding in the forest, I am wearing what is called a dampening suit. If struck it will take the electric shock of a spider round without harming me. Since all of you are so concerned with my personal safety, I thought I’d mention it.”

Another grin from the men.

“Please wear your helmets and visors at all times. You have five hours to deliver me to the safe house.” Wit donned his own helmet and tightened the chinstrap. “Begin.”

The men immediately moved into action, putting on their helmets and forming a perimeter around Wit with their backs to him.

“Please kneel down, sir,” said one of the men.

Wit took a knee, hiding himself behind the circle of soldiers.

Mazer had hung back and was now snapping cartridges into the rifles and tossing them to the soldier in the perimeter nearest him. That man passed two rifles to his left and one to his right until every man in the circle was armed.

Wit was impressed. The whole maneuver had taken only a few seconds, and the men had reacted smoothly without speaking to one another, as if this had been a drill they had run hundreds of times.