2010 – The Highest Bidder
The sniper lay in pitch black, only a tiny beam of light filtering in from the crack in the building wall. Sitting here, hidden as he was, he was the silent executioner. The bolt of his aged yet effective AF-1BE bolt-action rifle, a mass-produced weapon built of mass-machined wood and stamped metal more than fifty years ago, lay closed and sealed a single high-velocity round in its chamber. This was an export rifle, a 7.62x51mm weapon built for an overseas market, and through many various owners it had found its way to him. He had no way of knowing how many it had been held by, how many people it had killed or injured, or how many bullets it had propelled at a target. Soon, he knew, it would gain another victim.
His target was walking into view, into the killing zone. Along this straight street, nobody was left – all had either been warned by his comrades of what was to happen, or had been evacuated by mask-clad soldiers of the Fegosian army. And below, the bravest of them all appeared, his challenger in this duel. Ahead of him was a pile of rubbish that had been left there, human and food waste mixing with ash. Yet as the man began to brush the detritus away with a pole, he exposed something that wasn't supposed to be there. A cylinder, unlike anything one would normally see, olive green paint scratched off in parts to reveal rusting metal. Across its body, a two red bands sat below a warning symbol. He knew the device, when set off, would release a toxic gas. The bomb disposal expert knew that that toxic gas was a lethal cocktail of sulphur mustard gas and lewisite, chemicals that would persist for weeks, tainting the land and burning all those who stayed nearby. As he carefully moved a plastic bag out of the way, he revealed an improvised bomb of some sort attached to the cylinder's release valve – a charge sitting ready to shear the top of the cylinder off, should the bomb disposal soldier, the ammunition technician officer, make one poor move.
The sniper put down the mobile phone he knew would no longer detonate the weapon, glancing the antenna protruding from the man's backpack. He focused down the sights, working out range from the buildings, and from guesswork. His target was almost alien, something he had seen only once before. Unlike the normal men, in their plastic suits or uniform and mask, this one seemed to be wearing something like a spacesuit, exoskeletal supports helping him move. On his back, a cooling system and oxygen rebreather system sustained his suit's internal environment, with electrical warfare and communications aerials on opposite sides. From beneath the fabrics, ceramic plates moved with his target's motions, whilst an integrated helmet bubble sat to seal the environment and prevent shrapnel damage. His nation's patch, a palm tree in black on a tan background, had been attached to the velcro on his shoulders, alongside his recognition flash. Ammunition Technician Officer, High Risk Operative. Bomb disposal, of those devices designed to kill him and anyone who tried defusing it.
The sniper's target was well armoured, and mobile, though relying on both marksmen he could not see, and soldiers he could see, to provide cover. He waited, until the man lifted the object up slightly – somehow, it seemed, he had defused the tamper-proof device, with his skill and luck. He stood up and turned around, obviously relieved and satisfied of their being no secondary devices, ready to walk back to his men. A single gunshot rang out, and the suited man collapsed face down, hitting the ground.
The sniper drew his bolt back slowly, letting the hot casing jump out and roll to one side, before slowly pushing the bolt forwards again. Smoke had appeared, the efforts of the man's comrades, completely masking the street in putrid white smoke. Phosphor hissed and burnt on the unmade road, forcing an impenetrable fog over the land. It was his time to move, to sneak out. And, above all, to collect his reward from his paymaster.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“You are a lucky man. I don't know if it was the suit that saved you, or luck – but I wouldn't press it again.” The bomb disposal officer sat, helmet off, in the battalion aid post within FOB Tekanav, rest of his suit still operating from the mains plug. On the table, his helmet sat, a great scar gouged into its back and along its left side. The short-range antenna had been ripped off, and yet the gel held on the suit's inner surface had flowed and hardened over the gouge. He had survived with a burn along the side of his head, hairs singed or pulled out when extracted from the hardened helmet, though that mattered little to him.
“Very lucky indeed.” The Medical officer continued seeing to the superficial burn as an intelligence officer walked into this shipping crate that served the medical staff as an infirmary. The ATO was due a debrief, and it seemed that it would be carried out here to save time.
“Major Te'xe, you do know that there is a price on your head, courtesy of our good friends the SPRA?”
“What's one of those? I thought it was the People's Revolutionary Army who had their sticky fingers in this mess.”
“No, it would appear sir that it's a splinter faction, causing their woes over here. The man who shot at you today was doubtlessly a local gun, fighting to the payroll that the SPRA has put out. It would appear they're trying to use Hurgat as a stronghold to launch attacks on Neo'los, though so far taking their time about things. As an ammunition technician officer, or bombsquad leader, you've got $50 000 on you being dead. No doubt, whoever shot you today thought he'd sorted you for good.”
“And the rest of us?”
“It would seem $1000 dead, a third of the ransom if alive, double if it's a woman. They're savages here, and it would not befit us to do anything other than to deter them from this payment, and try and hold this country together. It's an absolute mess, as you know sir, and we're hoping that today's event might give us some more information as to tracking down the smugglers, and above all the big fish – the paymasters.”
The briefing carried on for a while, notes taken, as distant gunfire crackled. It would only be a couple hours till, once again, the seemingly fearless officer would be back outside the compound walls, making that long walk.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was two weeks later when the unthinkable happened. By now, the device in question, another cylinder hidden in the back of a parked van, was not visible to the IECD specialist officer directly, but via a video link. A high definition camera beamed images to a laptop on his lap, as its operator made the manoeuvre into position via remote control and a joystick. It was a different street, in a different town, and the cylinder in question was painted black. It could be a training cylinder or riot gas – or, as he suspected, there could be something horrible lurking in the device.
“Cylinder model dates it to around 1974 – contents are likely stable, and device appears to be pressurised... yes, the safety seals have not been removed, and an IED in the form of a hand grenade attached to the device. It seems they've excavated into the side of the device – there's a remote detonator, and manual detonation via a tripline to the grenade. I will firstly attempt to remove the device's electrical fuse, then disengage the manual line.”
“Sir.” The electronic warfare specialist, the fourth man in the team, sat with the control station for the transmitter he had left just outside the LY219 APC.
“We've got an inbound radio signal – this device is being signalled to via radio transmitter, probably like the one used for a model airplane. It's currently being jammed, but the moment we stop jamming, that thing is going to blow.”
“Can you locate the signal?”
“It's roughly...” The man quickly scribbled down readings from the control terminal, noting needle positions and LCD displays.
“100 metres to 300 metres, if we assume it's a model aircraft transmitter. They'll have line of sight over the weapon.”
The man knew that as soon as any of them suited up, they would become targets. However, this time, it appeared that the enemy were trying to detonate the device – normally, they waited for someone to come out. The stakes, it appeared, had changed.
“Captain, get your men to do a sweep of the area, CBRN state 2. CBRN state 1R for all others, ready to rock if this kicks off. I think we're being forced into an ambush.”
The major continued working, taking over control of the robotic claws to identify and retrieve items, testing things with a gentle pull. He looked over, swearing, before calling the robot back in.
“We need to change the manipulating arm for a fine cutter – this is a first for this type of IECD. They've linked the electrical detonator to the fail-safe, so if I yank it out the device will go off. If I cut it however, and I need fine tools to do that without the electrical failswitch going off, we should be able to disarm and neutralise the device.”
A loud shot outside made him freeze, as shouts came. A couple men dove into the vehicle, panting.
“Sniper!” The round hadn't been aimed at a person – a bullet gouge had cut into the metal frame of the robot, hitting nothing vital. A second loud boom, from the same anti-material rifle, saw the camera black out. The terms of this deadly duel had changed, and either side could no longer hide behind technology. From the sound of the rifle, the bomb suit might provide him body protection – though any normal body armour would not cope with such high-velocity rounds.
“Get the suit out, and get me a grenade launcher or better. He's close by, and on the west side of the street. Get all the men and the two counter-sniper marksmen to get ready – this bastard is going down.”
Five minutes later, the battered tan suit slowly moved, the man taking careful paces from cover to cover. In his hands, his AF-07 with a grenade launcher attached, the weapon itself with grenade sights unfolded on its side. He had one shot, and knew he had to make the most of it.
“You'll have to hurry up Major – the transmitter here won't keep up a signal for more than fifteen minutes. The building sweep teams are slowly moving up down the backstreets, and mesolite has picked up no rooftop activity. Don't put yourself at risk if you don't have to.”
Each step he took, the man was looking for traps – maybe a tripwire, maybe a mine to catch him out. From the weapon's sound, he wasn't fighting a local – he was fighting another Fegosian, a PRA fighter, who was infinitely more ingenious and well trained than the local fighters.
The town was emptying, he knew it, allied forces evacuating people from the area. This device could possibly detonate, and they needed the space to manoeuvre in. From now on, if it wasn't local military or Fegosian, it was hostile. In an ever widening area of town, a free fire zone was being declared. He stayed in cover as their armoured vehicle moved along, the jamming transmitter just visible and tied down to the roof. They could provide cover, essential for him as he continued his operations, though it could only advance as fast as him. They had no idea what failsafes this bomber would have installed.
Another shot rang out, dust thrown up on a wall by the Major – now, he knew, the shooter was targeting the EW antenna. They had little time. He quickly visualised where the bullet could have come from, imagining the buildings across the road from his hiding place, before depressing the grenade launcher's safety button. He listened to his breathing for a second, echoing in the enclosed environment, calming himself down, before leaning out. Another shot hit the transmitter, snapping off an aerial, just as the Major fired. A single metal object arched out from cover, hitting a building, blowing a great hole in its side. He ducked back, waiting, dropping the smoking casing out of the breech of the launcher. He reloaded, listening in over his radio to the analysis from his team, on this their personal role network. They hadn't found the sniper, and he was still taking potshots.
“Sod this, he'll take out the transmitter, even if the battery doesn't go in the next few minutes. Major, take out that damn IECD!”
He stood, listening in to the ambient sounds of the suit. “Twenty minutes battery remaining. Seek recharge.” The mechanical female voice soothed and worried him simultaneously, as he planned what would happen in his head. Slinging the rifle on his back, he braced himself, before sprinting out.
Effortlessly, the suit mirrored his actions, quickly propelling his heavy mass across the road at speeds that would shame an athlete. The shots were aimed at him now, and yet all caution on his part had gone.
“Move the APC forwards! I need cover!” The top machinegun started firing, one of the crew not waiting for a cue. Rounds smashed into building sides in great bursts, casing flying across the street as the general area was strafed. He hit the ground by the car, smashing the rear window with a gloved fist, before reaching in. Focusing, he gently moved the general rubbish from over the weapon, before reaching in with fine cutters. He closed over the cable, as great clouds of smoke drifted over the position. His flashlight came on as he tapped the side of his helmet twice, the white beam giving light in the dark fog, as he looked in closer to defuse it. The first detonator was severed, its two prongs snapping, revealing the second. He closed on the other, slowing his breathing as he constantly checked for other traps.
A sharp pain, a streak of white hot agony, hit him like a hammer blow, forcing him to recoil backwards. He writhed around, and there in the dark fog was the other Fegosian – his mark. Despite his gas mask, the man's skin was still clearly visible, the unmistakable olive-tan that was not native to this parts. The man was clutching a vicious looking knife, now covering in black gel and red blood.
“Warning – suit breech detected. Purge to cleanse environment.” The suit's gel would seal the hole, but wouldn’t stop the blood now pouring from the gash in his lower back, between the kevlar plates and pads in his rear armour. He didn't care, and had no focus – the automative systems that he had refined his control over had come into control. As adrenaline coursed through his body, and chemical transmitters closed down non-essential pathways in his brain, he moved into fight-or-flight mode. And, with his years before as a soldier, an infantryman, the former came into its own. With a shout, he swung at the man, knocking him flying with a superhuman punch. Limping after, he picked up the man, lifting him off the floor to face height, and stared at him through tinted visor, breathing now a fast rasp that echoed in the closed air system. A second punch saw his enemy collapse, blood leaking from severed vessels in his temple, a dent where the fist had made contact.
He dropped to his knees, letting the adversary flop to the ground as a lifeless ragdoll, as the pain continued to surge through him. The one thing that made him more mobile had been used as a weakness, and now seemed to be his downfall.
“Major, what is IECD status? You have... I don't know, the battery's just about to die, and there's still a signal coming in.”
“I'm man down – just been stabbed.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the radio, followed by distant swearing.
“Don't come and get me yet – I'll take care off it.”
With great effort, he stood up, knowing that on the other side of this agony was the sweet bliss of morphine. Blood continued to trickle over his underclothes, cooled somewhat by the suit's fans. The exertion had drained the battery, to the point the small wrist meter showed he had little ability to move left. And still he forced himself to walk, taking eight strides, before leaning in. He cut the second fuse, cut the tamper device set to the grenade, before letting himself collapse.
He had missed the obvious. Smoke continued to drift over the battlefield, as another figure appeared – a group of figures, masked. They kicked his body, sneering from behind their masks. Three of them, one with a long rifle and the others with smaller assault weapons. One leaned in, pulling the pin from the grenade, nodding to the man on the floor, before sprinting away.
The explosion came, followed by a deadly hiss.
“Warning – Type Red agent detected.” The detector patch on his arm had changed colour to a bright red, as the gas sprayed across the battlefield. He had failed, and didn't even have the strength to reach for a bandage or morphine pen. As cries of gas release echoed across the radio, he lay and let consciousness slip away in waves, knowing there was nothing he could do.
A figure looked over him – someone who he didn't recognise. A man knelt down, rifle in hand, long sleeves and kitchen gloves covering his arms, and plastic bags tied with elastic bands to his boots. The man's gas mask was unrecognisable – Korrodosian, he thought, yet ancient in design. Small glass windows stared at him, above a dangling filter, almost ghoulish a figure in his eyes. It nodded to him, slinging a rifle to its back, before dragging him by his feet to a nearby doorway. Blood trickled back, towards his neck and head, sticking to his hair and clothing, and yet now he was inside a building – in safety. The figure opened the pouch labelled with a cross on the suit's right leg, putting a black morphine pen from within in the collapsed officer's hand. He bent over, wheezing briefly, before placing the pen in the man's hand, nodding.
“Foreigner, where did the bad men go?”
The officer raised a hand, pointing briefly, before it collapsed. The man nodded, before disappearing into the darkness.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Did he survive?”
“Barely – I think he went out on the aircraft back to Neo'vi, to the Fegosians.”
Steam rose as the man washed himself off in a hot shower, filth running off into a bucket. The clothing he had worn was already in the bucket, now joined with the dust and sand that he'd rolled himself in. Despite his protection, his arms were covered in small burns, angry red patches that had flared up in the past half hour. His rifle and gas mask sat soaking in a bucket of hot, soapy water, victims of the gas attack. The two men spoke in a garbled native tongue, incomprehensible to outsiders of any race.
“Did you get them?”
“The other three will not be hurting our people again. The fourth man was taken by the Fegosians.”
“Why did you do it? They were paying us good money.”
The water stopped, the man letting the vat of hot water finish emptying to wash the rest of the waste away.
“Lekol, my friend, I'm not doing this for money. I'm doing this for the good of our people. Once these evil people are gone, the Fegosians will leave. If they do not, then I will fight them as well. I don't have any allies.”
He sat down, half clothed, opening a small metal box. The items within were antiquated, but still usable. He began binding the sores, wincing as he thought of the hardship ahead, before lying back on the soft rug.
“I'm doing this because I need to give something back. I came back from my travels to seeing our land caught in the greatest change in its history. They call it culture shock. It's a horrible thing, and yet I still can't put my skills to use. There's no place for an academic, a scholar, in a country such as this. There is, however, for a fighter.”
“Hakam, my good friend. The people already know of you, as do all the others. Is it worth both sides having a price on your head for your vigilantism? The warlords and fighters distrust you, the Fegosians think you aren't helping, the foreign fighters see you as an enemy.”
“I fought in their army, for goodness sakes. Not the Fegosians, some other nation. That's how I learnt how to fight, that's why these people I fight have no idea what's coming to them. That's the only skills that still seem to serve me.”
He rolled over and went to sleep, letting the smell of incense to waft over him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
