John Ringo: Sister Time

He couldn’t have known that one third of the Bane Sidhe operatives in the briefing room heard him, quite clearly, with their enhanced hearing. Their faces gave no sign as they sat at the desks used, between missions, for training classes.

“All right, men. We have been ordered to the Institute for the Advancement of Human Welfare on the basis of receiving intelligence that there may be an attack there by forces hostile to them. You will notice that I did not describe the attackers as ‘terrorist forces.’ We have intelligence of an impending attack. We also have internal intelligence that this facility is a front for the Epetar Group and that said facility is engaged in activities that would, themselves, fall within our organizational definitions of terrorism. According to our information, the attackers are members of an organized vigilante group.”

It could not have been his imagination that some of his men looked at him a little sharper, while one or two might have looked the slightest bit shamefaced. The holo of the building he told his PDA to display took up a third of the empty space in the front of the room, before the ranks of desks. His XO had ensured that there were no AIDs in the room, to the reported chagrin of one FNG who had not yet learned to remain emotionally detached from the treacherous little machine.

“DAG’s mission is to stop a terrorist act in case of an attack,” he stated deliberately. “To that end, the Epetar Group are known associates of and supporters of terrorists, as each of you knows from recent personal experience. Our intelligence indicates that the Epetar people are holding civilian captives in the basement areas of the building. Note that our mission is not to initiate attack, but to respond against terrorism if one occurs. In the event of an attack on the facility, which we confidently expect to occur, our counterterror mission dictates that we liberate those captives.” He scanned the room, making eye contact with individual officers and men. “To that end, you are to consider the vigilantes friendlies with objectives of their own separate from ours.

“The Epetar people believe we are coming up as security forces in support of them,” Jake continued. “We will encourage them in that belief as long as possible in order to infiltrate the facility. In line with that, they are expecting us to report to this area,” he pointed to a loading dock on one end of the building, “for briefing on the situation and deployment within the building. Which we will do.

“We will be carrying buckley PDAs, and only buckley PDAs, for full compatibility of communications, secure from the enemy. We will insist on keeping members of the same platoons as close together as possible. I do not anticipate any trouble persuading the Epetar people to comply.

“Major Kelly will brief you on the mission plan for location and liberation of hostages.”

Specialist Quackenbush, 19, who did not know that his company XO now classed him as “the FNG with the AID,” stopped one of the other guys in his platoon as they rechecked their webgear for the mission prescribed equipment. “Hey, what the fuck is up with these mission orders? Vigilantes? Corporate terrorists? Is the old man off his nut? I mean, what the fuck are his fucking orders? Really, honest to God, is he insane ? Dude, I’m seriously asking.”

“What the fuck is your problem, Quackenbush?” Specialist Grady hissed. “If you think for one moment that the old man would disobey his orders, or maybe you don’t have confidence in the rest of your chain of command, then what the hell are you doing in the service and how the hell did you make it here?”

“Well, excuse me for breathing, Grady. You find nothing strange about this?”

“Cherry, did you ever maybe think we’ve got the term ‘Fucking New Guy’ for a reason? Shut the fuck up and follow your orders. The old man knows what he’s doing.”

Quackenbush received a professional ass-chewing that took less than half a minute and left him feeling about two inches high when Sergeant Mauldin relieved him of his AID, again, before they climbed into the choppers, popping the little computer neatly into some kind of envelope and tossing it in the back of one of the jeeps in the motor pool before climbing into the bird. He grimaced as he tried to orient the PDA that the sergeant had shoved into his hands instead so that he’d be able to use the thing, and hoped it didn’t snow or something and break his AID. This buckley didn’t even have a damn personality overlay. He shut up miserably in his seat among the other Bravo guys. He was in the doghouse for sure, and right now had no idea whether the world had gone crazy or he had.

Sergeant Major Mueller pulled him aside a few minutes later as they got off the chopper. The enlisted man resigned himself to another ass-chewing and maybe even an article fifteen.

“Look, son.” The old sergeant clapped a hand on his shoulder in a fatherly manner. “You’re in a counterterror unit. We’re liberating civilian hostages. Just keep your eye on the ball, and your mind on the mission. You’ll do just fine. And if you don’t, I’m going to shove a size sixteen boot up your ass so far my toe is going to be kicking your tonsils.”

The loading bay was large, for what it held. Three stories high and a bit larger than half a basketball court, it stood mostly empty. Made largely of Earthtech materials, the Galtech portions had the look of replacements and repairs, as if someone had been uninterested in building new, but had had such ready access to Galtech materials that cost was an afterthought whenever anything needed repairs. Boxes stood in palleted stacks along the walls, separated in clumps as if grouped for type. A couple of forklifts sat in the middle of the floor, as if their operators had knocked off without parking them away.

The mass of men in green-detailed coveralls either ignored the forklifts or leaned against one as they listened to the shift supervisor explain why they had all been called in after six o’clock on a fucking Friday. Turned out one of the suits had a wild hair up his ass about some corporate raid that probably existed only in his imagination. The general mood among the guards whose shift it wasn’t was pissed off, except for the ones who really needed the double-time pay, coming up on Christmas. The general mood among the guards whose shift it was was pissed off, on account of not getting paid double-time along with the other guys.

The half dozen DAG troops who weren’t actively patrolling had positioned themselves on one side of the mass of security guards, giving them a clear field of fire across the bay. They had picked the side nearest some stacks of boxes they could retreat behind for cover. That gave them the cover boxes, and the boxes on the far side of the hostiles, to absorb ricochets in the bay. The haphazard mix of Galplas and cinderblock walls was unlikely to be fun as backstops. Better to ruin the enemies’ day than their own.

Six specwar troopers with pistols and shotguns, versus sixty armed idiots. The odds were jimmied by the two or three juved war veterans, riffed out and working at whatever they could get on planet. That, plus the shells in the DAG guns, all of them, which were supposed to be rock salt but weren’t. Buckshot was downright unpleasant for human targets, not to mention the other little specials among the shells on their belts. The number of shells had had many of the regular guards making snide remarks about expecting ice on the roads.

The Bane Sidhe operatives, which all of them also were, had each security guard classified more in the category of “target” than “human.” To the extent that they considered the guards people at all, the men classed every facility guard based on their willing employment in support of an organization committing atrocities against civilians. Nobody in DAG, Bane Sidhe or not, had problems with killing bad people.