Michael Williamson - When Diplomacy Fails…

They clambered aboard through the side hatch of the cargo box, and the stench hit them. This was a trash hauler of some description. It smelled of rot, piss, moldy socks and putrefying something. He gagged, and sat Highland down on a seat. It was quite literally a wooden dining chair, old style, well-scarred, stuffed into the corner.

The one opposite was a dilapidated office chair, unpowered. Both might clean up as valuable antiques, if anyone bothered, and if any potential buyers would care.

They all gasped for breath. The box was enclosed, hot, humid and some of those fumes had to be toxic.

Bart said, “I will open the back enough to kick trash out.”

Alex said, “I’m not sure on doing that.”

Bart said, “I am. The vapors are not safe. I smell mercaptan, sulfides, some alkynes. It must go.”

Alkynes? Really? Or was he lying just to make sure they could clear some out, because it smelled that bad? Either way, Alex didn’t protest.

Aramis clutched at Highland’s chair as Jason took a corner fast. He didn’t complain because there must be a reason, but Highland almost slid off the chair into a bag of goo.

Bart and Shaman kicked and shoved stuff out, using boots and carbine muzzles. No one wanted to touch anything.

Then a round came through the box, up high, downward angle from the rear.

Alex shouted, “Unass and take cover!” as Aramis grabbed Highland’s arm and moved for the rear, or tried to. Jason braked hard, and he was pinned in place. Then braking stopped and he bounded toward the rear, tangling, dancing, and just avoiding a leaking puddle of diapers, canned peas and something really nasty.

Shot from high rear had to be the BuInt assholes on the Springblades. They were really pissing him off, and it was personal.

“Someone take Highland,” Aramis said, and grabbed the bag slung over Bart’s shoulder. “Keep the vehicle moving. I’m going up to delay those chasers. I’ll catch up on that.” He pointed at the bag.

“How?”

“I did go to the Mountain School.”

Highland said, “Thank you for that,” with a somber expression.

It took him a moment to figure out her meaning.

“Huh? Lady, I don’t plan to die. I’m going to tangle up at least one of them, and they’re more interested in pursuing you than me.” He clutched the bag and bailed out the side.

Aramis lit out at a sprint, amused and revolted that Highland thought he’d risk himself as a decoy for her. He had clear orders on what he was required to do, and deliberately hunting BuInt Paramils wasn’t on that list.

He was doing it for fun.

He realized it was cocky and potentially lethal, but it was necessary, and he was up to it. Yes, it was grandstanding, but the payoff would be huge.

Yes, those black dots were them, and if they could make small arms shots at this range… shit. They were Jason’s quality. Though it could have been luck. Or it could have been a piloted shot. Or massively processed.

The rest hustled off, and that feeling of being a bug on a plate hit him. No one here was a friendly, and faces poked out of windows as they realized he was alone.

So much for donning the gear here. He shouldered the bag and sprinted in a crouch. He turned the corner, found the door, yanked and it came off its hinges. He shrugged, shoved and kept moving. The stairs were nothing but debris-covered concrete, and he found the best way to ascend was to just move his feet flat and kick stuff out of the way. He heard glass tinkle and crunch and was glad for the armored soles on his boots.

The top landing was secure enough. There were no signs of occupation, and he’d hear anyone below. Time was short. He had to get on the roof, and luckily the hatch was half askew anyway. He paused just below to catch his rasping breath. He had time if he was fast, so he stepped into the harness, then yanked straps around until it fit, hoping he had it correct.

In the shotgun seat, with a shotgun, Elke realized Aramis was correct. It was getting violent, and almost certainly propagating. She wanted to fire a recon round, but unless someone else shot first, she was reluctant to draw attention to herself. They had no drones.

At the corner, Jason stopped again, shouted, “Now!” and the rest bailed out of the back with Highland and Jessie. As soon as they were clear, he drove off again.

Then someone did shoot, and she realized she couldn’t fire a recon round. The remaining shells were all cratering charges, because she hadn’t swapped cassettes.

No problem, then. That man over there was about to get a lesson in potshots. She raised the gun, got the arc, snapped the trigger. The report struck her earbuds and was dissipated, but was unfiltered as a shock wave against her face. As the recoil bit her shoulder, the charge blew a perfect ten centimeter hole through his midsection. He looked surprised as he sat down, slumped at an odd angle because his spine was gone, along with his heart, then collapsed in convulsions above the hole, while his lower two thirds remained limp and meatlike.

That would teach the fucker.

More shots sounded, and she grinned. Now she would get to teach lots of lessons. That was exciting.

Ahead of them a squad of irregulars deployed on the sidewalk. They must have been waiting for some kind of action, and as eager as she. Now, where were those tubes? There. She pulled one from her harness, slid it over the muzzle, and carefully fed the gun back through the window.

“Don’t start a war if you can’t take a joke,” she mumbled, chose her target, thumbed the selector and clicked the trigger.

Her chosen cartridge was an overpowered blank to act as a launcher and igniter. The large muzzle charge elevated the recoil to a sharp jab, but that meant it was working. If she’d called it right, they were eighteen meters away. The projectile arced deeply, being several times more massive than a standard shell. At fifteen meters, it fuzed.

She was quite proud of that piece of improvisation. The tail fuze hit a triple charge that ignited, split the case and dispersed in a cone.

The powder puffed before deflagrating, like a beautiful flower petaling open. The cloud was a dark gray with perfect twisting swirls, then a flash that coned and roiled so as to form a perfect base ring. It reached about three meters wide, imperfect due to the ground, the building, and four bodies inside the fireball, convulsing then screaming. One ran like a chopped chicken, his robe billowing into smoky flames. The others just rolled around in a tangled, darkening mess.

Jason said, “Pocket thermobaric?”

“Yes.”

“Damn, woman. That’s sexy.” He glanced and grinned between steering around obstacles.

“I knew you’d care.”

She loaded a second one, and paused. Much as she’d like to torch a few, they were retreating. She didn’t want to waste ammunition.

However, that group over there, with what looked like a machine gun… she swung, snapped and felt the shoulder sting. This one upset her. The charge was a bit asymmetric and favored the lower arc. They all still burned, but thrashed around clutching and beating at their shins.

“Impact,” Jason said calmly, and someone thumped off the left quarter.

She saw others, and there were too many. His last turn had taken them out of sight of her previous targets, so the thickening crowd had nothing to judge the situation.

“We’re going to get swarmed,” she said.

“Yes. We need to get back to the others. We’ve done enough distraction. Hold on.”

Bart was probably a better limo driver, but Jason did just fine with heavy vehicles. He swung violently left, and the truck leaned crazily, but didn’t roll. There were multiple thumps of bodies being hit and thrown, and much more gunfire. One cracked through the open window, and punched a hole just above Jason’s head.