Michael Williamson - When Diplomacy Fails…

“I would like a weapon,” she said. “For my own protection.”

“I don’t have a moral objection. However, what is your training level?”

“I’ve shot guns on the range. I handled the M Ninety once on a military reaction range.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Tell me honestly, was that mostly for show?”

“Yes,” she nodded, “but I know which end to point.”

“Very well,” he nodded, and Jason handed back a spare carbine. Highland checked the chamber and flipped the safety off without much fumbling. “Keep it pointed away from any of us, and do not fire unless one of us fires first. Jessie, what about you?”

“I’ll sit in the corner of the seat and be very small.” She seemed too scared to be embarrassed.

“That’s a good tactic. We may need to debark and run, though. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” she said firmly.

“I need you to remember that we have to cover Ms. Highland first, and can only cover you if circumstances permit.”

“Yes,” she said again, her lips trembling a bit.

“Let’s move. We find new transport, Bart drives, Jason shotgun, Aramis tailgunner, Elke clears the route as needed, and the rest of us cover Ms. Highland and Jessie.”

Jason said, “An open truck is not my first choice, but we can get that one right there.”

The truck contained six fighters in mixed camouflage and keffiyeh, with a mounted machine gun and rifles. There was a gunner in the passenger seat and a driver wearing a helmet and looking almost professional.

“Do it. Elke, chase them off.” Aramis vaulted out and took off at a sprint at that command. Bart led Jason.

Instantly, Elke grabbed a softball-sized something from her harness and flung it in a high arc. It dropped accurately, popped a tiny chute, and started exploding in a string of vigorous reports. They were not firecrackers, but probably blasting caps. The crew in the bed fled, taking their weapons and leaving the rest of their gear. The passenger unassed, but the driver fumbled as if to shift gears and move.

Aramis reached him right then, punched him solidly in the side of the head, pulled the door and unceremoniously yanked the unconscious form out. He swung his legs up into the bed, tangled and tumbled over his cannon, then got positioned. Bart scooped up the driver’s dislodged helmet and squeezed in, cursing in German. Jason rolled across the hood. His entry around the door in a twist and leap was far too gymnastic for a man in his 40s.

Elke tossed another distraction and some smoke. It was thick, yellow and smelly, but probably proof against IR and UV frequencies.

Alex had one of Highland’s shoulders, Shaman had her backpack, and they ran, with Jessie sprinting behind while shrieking in a whimper.

Shaman jumped and pressed himself over the bed side, reached down and pulled Highland up by her armpits as Alex shoved her rump. He then turned and grabbed Jessie between her legs and by one shoulder and handed her up to Shaman, then jumped, pressed and rolled in himself.

“Go!” he shouted, and looked around to get organized.

Aramis had just passed his cannon forward to Jason, who laid it across the battered panel and hood. There were no windows left in the vehicle. Aramis looked quite comfortable in a reclining lounge chair, even if it was half-mildewed, sun-bleached and torn. He did a quick function check of the AA-tripod mounted machine gun in the middle, and leaned back, letting the gun sweep buildings as Bart nailed the throttle. It was a fine sunny day for a drive around the park in a truck full of weapons.

Aramis said, “Shaman, you take the gun for threats in front. Jason has my cannon.”

Elke said, “And I have Jason’s squad weapon.” She grabbed a folding carbine one of the occupants had abandoned and handed it to Highland, who had taken a seat between wheel well and cab, legs around one of the tripod supports, leaning against Aramis’s seat. “Spare,” she said.

Jessie was on the other side, hunched down but apparently still functional. She kept an eye out her side, with occasional nervous glances around.

Alex said, “Make sure you can debark in a hurry when we have to.”

Right then, Jason fired a round from the cannon, to clear the route ahead of them. Elke fired a burst in a rearward sweep across the road, because the former occupants had noticed the theft of their transport. They were probably fairly elite by local standards, Alex thought. They all wore new Blackwing work boots.

Aramis shouted, “Four hostiles on Springblades, rear!” and pointed.

Alex followed his finger and saw them, or tried to. They were in distortion suits, but the rucks, weapons and Springblade boots were clearly visible.

“That’s different,” he said.

Aramis fired a burst, but the range was too great, and moving platform to moving target made it an impossible shot.

Highland shouted, “What is it?”

“Springblades, ma’am. They’re those boots parkeur traceurs use for rooftop chases, only in this case, I’m assuming they’re hostiles.”

Aramis fired a second burst as Elke twitched. She wasn’t in front of the muzzle, but she was close enough to get hit with the pressure wave. Shaman was half-prone, leaning over the side like the gunwale of a boat, head under the tripod.

“Scared one,” Aramis said.

The truck stopped suddenly, as Jason shouted, “Cover, all around!” He was sitting on the console, facing rear, resting his arms on the roof.

Alex turned to cover the right, Elke had rear, Shaman left, and Aramis swung the machine gun around, holding it at an odd angle where it would eject links into his face, but would cover forward, if Jason ducked in time.

But Jason stared for a moment, eyes tracking, then raised his carbine almost casually and burped off a burst of five.

“Got one. Drive!” he said, and everyone gripped hard as Bart took them back to speed.

Jason shimmied back through and resumed his seat. Over his shoulder he yelled, “If you’re in trajectory, you have no cover, and no maneuverability.”

Alex nodded, but he was considering that they’d just shot one of the government’s best assassins. Nothing good was going to come of that.

They turned a corner, and Bart called, “Contact front!”

They were in the midst of a huge mob, who seemed to be spectators to a small engagement between two rival gangs of ten or so each.

Then the crowd noticed the truck, and half of them turned toward it.

Aramis fired a descending burst toward the crowd, Elke dropped another string of squibs, Jason shot a round from the cannon low over the fight ahead, and Shaman casually punched someone in the face with the muzzle of his carbine. He didn’t hit hard enough to knock the man down, but it was enough to raise a bloody welt and dissuade him from climbing into the truck. The rest of the mob suddenly vacated a clear area a good twenty meters in diameter.

Bart prodded the truck forward, just as a round from one of the rooftop pursuers meteored into the dirt behind them. That caused the crowd to dissipate further, right at the moment they needed all the bodies they could get. There was no expectation that the local presence would dissuade attack, but the mob might soak up a few bullets at least.

Aramis swung back and fired another burst up and to his left-vehicle right. Bart turned the vehicle left and tried to put a street gap between them and pursuit. The surrounding mob broke up into several little cliques and brawls, but stayed thin enough that Bart was able to weave slightly. He certainly wasn’t the type to swerve for hostile idiots, and he wouldn’t use the horn, either, assuming it still worked.

About half a block down, Aramis said, “Gun’s empty, no spare belts. Clear me a path.”