Michael Williamson: When Diplomacy Fails…

Jason slapped his ankle, he prodded Cady and goosed Aramis. Aramis nodded, said, “Go!” and kicked at the door.

It didn’t break cleanly. It splintered. It was plastic, not wood, but old and crazed and some kind of extrusion. His boot went through and he wasn’t going to be able to pull it back out. Bart slammed his forearm against the upper section, and it gave way, and the two tumbled through, shoving the cabinet until it caught on the floor and fell over. They tumbled, rolled and came up.

A bullet came between them, right over Alex’s head, and he swarmed forward, high-stepping over the wreckage.

Then Bart opened up with the cannon.

Peripherally, he saw two men on the left explode into meaty goo. The cacophony echoed. Aramis fired three bursts right. Cady fired. There was a momentary pause for targets, and Jason started wailing something in Arabic, of which Alex only recognized, “ Allahu akbar! ” God is great. Well, that depended on whose god and the circumstances.

Ahead of him, someone kicked a door in, and started to spray the room. He pointed, filled them with a burst, and fired another, slightly sustained one down the corridor. That was about twenty rounds of his fifty-round mag gone.

Bart fired off some kind of grenade. Or maybe it was Elke. But the concussion was painful. Even moderate charges were brutal with reflective surfaces. Fire picked up all around as the eight mercenaries filled the space.

Alex realized there weren’t any more targets for him. The room was a dusty, smoky, choking haze of debris with the acrid smell of propellant and the salty tang of blood. Computers were shattered, a respectable commo unit had been expertly hit. The mic and headset were shattered by pinpoint shooting-probably Jason’s work.

Elke said, “Light military vehicle outside.”

Aramis said, “My map says there’s a perfect position for an OP at the top of this building.”

“Then we’re definitely not going there. Suggestions?”

“Yes, take the vehicle. I recommend frontal drive south.”

“What’s there?”

“More Sunni, then the army. There’s a peace control point about three kilometers ahead.”

“And Paramils overhead.”

“Bart can handle them, or Jason.”

“Yeah, and they won’t want to be seen in that mix. Though same rule applies.” He pointed in the direction of the door and started moving as he spoke. “They’ll be unseen in the mayhem. Also, contact forward.”

A squad of someone was arriving on the street front, taking up position across.

Alex ordered, “Block in principal, advance with cover fire, move.”

Shaman and Lionel stood directly in front of Highland and Jessie. Bart and Aramis opened up until it sounded like the world exploded. Elke and Jason did something on the left, Cady went right, and Alex followed. There were tens of troops, at least, advancing leapfrog, though most of them did dive for cover when shot at. He picked one, and his first shot grazed and creased the man’s back. Second shot was through the top of his helmet, and the man jerked like a frog. Two others shot back, and he flinched, but they weren’t close. It was always good to be a moving target.

The vehicle was some equivalent to a Grumbly. Unarmored, unarmed at present, but decently mobile. The block of protective meat flowed and climbed the back, and Lionel dove from the open bed, through the back hatch, into the cab. Jason ran up the passenger side, waving a tool roll, fired a burst from some locally procured dump gun, dumped it, yanked the door and jumped in.

Alex waited for the rest of Cady’s team, and she boarded second to last, then helped yank him up into the bed. They did not present a low profile, but they presented a heavily armed profile. Marlin had acquired some local machine gun, and Bart stood up against the cab as support and anti-air.

“Roll!” he and Cady both said at the same time.

They were driving into an approaching mass of armed people, heading east again, and needed to turn south. Troops spilled into the street, mostly second-rate militia, though that was probably generous. Little of this planet deserved the sobriquet of second rate.

They’d planned for action, even if they didn’t want it. They were about to get it.

Horace moved fast enough to keep Highland’s grip under tension, so he knew she was following. Outside, bullets cracked, but none close enough to worry him terribly. At the curb, he swung, detached Highland’s hand, and helped her into the bed with a shove. He frowned. She was soaked. Not critical in the field, but it had to be unpleasant and disturbing for a civilian.

He swung up after her, no longer being young enough to spring, and rolled ungracefully to a bench.

“You stay down, ma’am, miss,” he insisted. Then, holding his carbine over the rail in case of targets, he dug into his kit. Right side, lower, angled pocket, and… there.

He handed her a flat packet.

“Super absorbent gel. Pour it in your hand, and it will soak up the spill.”

She looked overwhelmed from the fire, but she recognized that, seemed to come back to ground, and said, “Thank you.” She started dumping it and applying it.

Technically, it was a clotting agent, but principal’s mental health mattered, too, and they’d already given this woman more adventure than her press releases had ever dreamed. The overload was apparent in her face.

Bullets cracked past, occasionally slapping into the sides. Marlin twitched and threw himself prone. Horace ducked, checked, saw a crater in his armor, and slapped him on the shoulder.

“You’re fine, just a spall.”

“Roger, thanks.”

Bart fired forward, something from each tentacle. The man was really getting good at controlling that beast; if only they made them less monstrous, but of course, batteries and ammo took volume and mass. One gun pointed to each side, ready to hose buildings. One pointed straight up against drones, and at that moment it swung and stuttered. Light pistol rounds were all that was needed to take down most of those things. The grenade launcher he kept pointed forward. He also had a dump gun under his left arm, for close-in hosing.

Elke shouted, “Recon!” and slammed a shell overhead. “Heavy foot traffic ahead, and fighting between vehicles. We’ll be dismounting in two hundred meters,” she said.

Alex shouted, “Understood, stand by.”

Cady said, “Edge and Helas are well-covered and safe. They’ll keep activating repeaters. Five left.”

Alex said,”Understood. Every ten minutes should do it.”

Horace kept his eyes on his sector. Until there were casualties, he was a gun. It always amazed him how few casualties there were. He had firsthand experience on how effective training, movement, and avoidance could be. Right then, a man, head wrapped in a rag and pointing a rifle, rose above the sill of a broken window. Horace twisted his gun that way and fired a burst. Whether he hit or not he was unsure, but the man didn’t shoot.

He heard sobbing. It was Jessie, not Highland. By touch, he located a mild tranquilizer and a mild stim. He reached back and said, “Slap these on your neck.”

Fingers clutched at them. It took her three tries. That was about right for the level he’d prescribed. Then she grabbed that small wooden penguin again. Good.

Bart called, “Obstruction in a hundred meters, checkpoint two hundred past that.”

Alex asked, “Hostiles?”

“I presume they all are.”

“Then feel free to target any threats. With prejudice.”

The battle was fairly intense by local standards, with several hostiles per block. Of course, they’d just hit someone’s headquarters.

Alex said, “Jessie, churp our location.”