Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC by Michael Z. Williamson
One of the enemy was wearing body armor, and while she didn't believe it, a dress underneath. So that rumor really was true. A wiry, buff young male in a turquoise evening gown. His sartorial elegance didn't stop Death or her pellets from finding him. The first load shattered his hip, flashing crimson through the fabric, while the second, raised and right, went through his face. She was proud of that shot, but didn't stop to admire it. She scooted back, slip-stepping, to make sure she didn't trip on obstacles. Alex was in close with a carbine, chattering out bursts.
She tossed a retch-gas canister just downwind enough to be clear of it, a frequency tailored smoke upwind to conceal their retreat, and toggled her glasses to see through it. Then she swiped at her harness to get a handful of what she called Nasty Pebbles. They were little balls of hyperexplosive wrapped around a kernel cap, with a fuse and microcontroller chip protruding enough so she could program them with the controller she had hanging under her right arm to counterbalance her pistol. She didn't waste time programming them under the circumstances. She just clutched and threw.
"Here they come," Alex said, and, "Dishwasher ready to be installed."
She was still slip-stepping backward as the pebbles started bursting with loud snaps. The smoke swirled and billowed, but she moved fast enough to keep it mostly between her and the threats. One more freak in a dress—a violet summer print with a fetching brimmed hat with a fringe—came running through, dripping blood where something had nicked him. She shot him. Slip-step might look like a silly pop-music dance step, but it also gave you a very smooth, level retreat that made shooting easy.
* * *
Jason had point and led the way toward the nearest building, a small house that would become their redoubt of the moment. He bounded up two steps. There were no obvious threats, but it paid to be discreet anyway. He doubted there were any here, but he was not paid to make that assumption. He stood to at the door as the rest closed in, keeping his attention split between street and their potential retreat. He couldn't let anything flank them, but also had to be aware for a tactical shift that would require exfiltrating through another route.
Aramis came up next. Jason watched him. The kid was doing his job well despite being the new guy. He laid down good fire and moved in an orderly fashion. Then he was against Jason. A few moments later, Shaman and Bart joined the huddle and it was time to move. Aramis goosed him to signal readiness. That wasn't a prank; the buttocks were the easiest exposed contact. He felt the touch and moved to the left, shooting a solid load into the door's mechanism, wishing for Elke's shotgun with breacher loads.
Bart kicked the door off its latch and stepped back again. Jason crescent-kicked it back against the wall and charged inside, to their right . . .
Aramis was a few centimeters behind and moved left, as Shaman went straight, and Bart backed up behind Bishwanath. Alex and Elke tumbled up the steps and took position right inside the door. Elke reloaded at once and instinctively clutched a grenade. Bloodthirsty bitch. He was glad to have her along. He noted one civilian inside, not a threat.
Just outside, the Hate Truck rolled in. A crackle of electricity stunned all those nearby, then the troops inside opened up with the nonlethal hardware. Between stunners, weepy gas, and retch gas, psychoactive agents and foams sticky and slick, it was a matter of seconds before the entire streetful of locals started thrashing and puking, sliding around on the ground and sticking together, with the reek of shit coming from involuntarily voided bowels. Recon was required to use nonlethal force, but they used as much of it as they could get away with.
Aramis had wet himself. That of itself wasn't amusing; it happened even to experienced pros at times, and there were also times you had to go. It had really struck his macho ego, though, and he was trying hard to hide the dark stains down his legs. Elke snickered blatantly. She'd never had that problem that he knew of, but didn't think less of people who did. However, Aramis was now in a position of ruining his own image. That made it hysterical. Jason suppressed his own chuckle. There's some humility for you, son.
Bishwanath stood cautiously, as Jason and Shaman patted him down, looking for wounds or other damage. Jason took the rear, Shaman took the front with his kit.
"Thank you, gentlemen, but I'm fine," Bishwanath insisted.
"We'll check anyway, sir, just to make sure," Shaman insisted right back. "Pupils even and responsive, pulse, respiration, and blood pressure elevated but normal. No visible injuries."
"Right," Alex said. "Shaman, check Bart. Let's get the convoy."
"Let us say hello to our hostess," Bishwanath said, pointing.
Jason looked where Alex was looking. Ah. The old lady. Sitting in a chair and looking both disturbed and confused. This was her house.
"Er, ma'am," Alex said. "We, that is . . ."
"Just passing through," Jason offered.
"Have we a moment?" Bishwanath asked.
"Yes, sir," Alex agreed. "The street has to be cleared and transport must arrive."
"Good afternoon, ma'am. I must apologize for our sudden entry," Bishwanath said.
The lady finally recovered from the shock of having her burglarproof steel door kicked off its hinges and a squad of armed, dirty suits swarming into her living room.
"Mister President!" she said, squinting slightly. "What an odd way of meeting."
"Indeed, ma'am. I do apologize, and I will ensure your door is fixed at once."
There came the thumping of lifters overhead. It was a pity, and a crime, Jason thought, that they couldn't have those during the convoys, only for reaction. They'd been led to expect better support.
"I've told them where we are and that we're secure," Alex said. "Let's cover front and back and give the President a few moments. Elke, can you record?"
"I can," she nodded. Her record wouldn't be as high quality as production video gear, but it would make good copy. That would help. Jason stepped out front with Bart and Shaman as the rest covered the back and Elke recorded.
"Nicely done," he said to Bart.
"Thanks," the man offered, smiling for once. "It worked well. Though the limos are a mess."
" 'Well used' is the term. But when we make a mess . . . hehehe." He indicated the street in front.
It was an intersection with a divided residential street crossing a thoroughfare. Two limos and two trucks were smoking piles of wreckage, both limos with holes blown in them. The Hate Truck's ministrations had left dozens of gawkers and troublemakers twitching. A good dozen were dead from fire. Bart was the team's only casualty. . . .
"I think the ribs are just bruised, and your liver may be, too," Shaman said. "I'll check with the full scanners when we get back. You should be fine in a few days with therapy."
"Good. As long as you are not to cut or saw."
"I save that for my very best patients." Shaman grinned hugely.
A few moments later, they all proceeded down in a huddle around Bishwanath, into the back of a military armored troop carrier. The President seemed delighted to be in such a vehicle, though all the others had long familiarity and didn't like the heat, fumes, close quarters, or sharp corners.
"I'd rather do this every time," Jason said, loudly enough to be heard.
"It's exciting, but I don't think I like it quite that much," Bishwanath admitted.
"It's not the 'like' so much, sir, as the 'can't be taken out by small arms' bit."
"We are all prisoners of our societies and expectations, Mister Vaughn." Bishwanath was smiling, but looking tired.
"That we are, sir."
Shortly, they pulled into the palace, debarked under Recon guard, and made a point of thanking their backup. Aramis was especially enthusiastic.
"Nice with the gas," he said, grinning. "Nothing like watching the little bastards squirm and squirt."
"You're welcome," said one of the operators. He grinned back. "All I know is, we finally got to pop smoke."
"Yeah, thanks," Jason said. "Aramis, I could use a hand back
"Sure," the kid agreed. "Thanks, guys. Later."
Jason checked they hadn't left any gear behind that was either controlled or personal, then ran the vehicle's hatch up until it clanked closed.
"Jason," his earbuds squawked.
"Go ahead, Alex," he replied.
"Clean up, grab food here, we'll debrief in a bit."
"Sounds good. We'll be up in a few. Checking the transport, got some docs and a spare magazine someone left."
"We'll put it out for claim."
CHAPTER 10
Jason felt a lot better after a shower. Damn, it was always a good day when you took fire, saved your principal, and got back unhurt. He didn't regard his bruised elbow or scraped shin as injuries. Those were part of the job.
As usual, the "news" was on for intel. Sometimes it gave advance notice of things they should have been informed of but had been forgotten in the frenzy. Of course, they had to immediately get the real story, which would rarely bare resemblance to the incompetent and ignorant ramblings of the press.
Elke was sitting back munching an apple, clean and calm and with a spreadsheet on her computer. Occasionally, she'd grip the apple with her teeth and type with both hands, then revert to one hand for each, or speak into the mic hanging around her neck; she wasn't bothering with headphones for interaction. This was all input.
She noticed his stare and said, "Running inventory of explosives, detonators, caps, remotes, circuitry, and triggers."
"Ah, right," he said. "I do mine old style. Sheet of paper and here." He tapped his head. A folded-up piece of paper with numbers was harder for someone else to interpret, but Elke kept tight control of her computer. Very tight.
Shaman scanned Bart with a handheld ultrasound unit, running it carefully over the dark welt on his ribs and nodding at the images on screen. He and finally sat back, waving his arms as if in some ritual. At least he wasn't wearing a mask.
"It is just bruising, but may have hit the liver, as I said. Watch how you feel and tell me if there are symptoms. Any symptoms from indigestion to fatigue or nausea to trouble moving."
Bart nodded and pulled his shirt down. "I did something similar when I was small, crashing into a tree."
Aramis was cleaning everybody's weapons. No, it wasn't punishment, Jason decided, looking at him. The kid had figured it needed done and looked very enthusiastic. He was also methodical and precise for the most part, with just a few pieces sliding across the mat. There was nothing wrong with him, really, except for maturity. He just didn't yet have internalized that there were some areas and times you didn't play around. Once he straightened that out, he'd be fine.
Alex had his computer attached to a large screen, and a map of the routes highlighted.
"Okay," Alex said, "now that we're all here, let's look at it.
"First, I should have given more thought to the closest few hundred meters, where we had limited support."
"I want to know where the hell the air power was," Aramis asked.
"They were there," Alex assured all of them. "They were definitely there. But once we were out of the vehicles, and the attackers were among civilians, what could they safely shoot at?"
Good point, Jason thought.
He said, "So someone competent set up a bunch of goons to try to pin us down. Luckily, we were faster and better than they anticipated."
"Right, Jason," Alex agreed. "This was a payoff for training and planning. We did our jobs and got out of a nasty situation. Great job, all of you. Elke, I loved the explosives. Bart, the camera is fuzzy but you bailed out under fire and didn't get hurt badly. Jason, Aramis, good fire on target, fast response getting to our ersatz safe house. Shaman, and Jason again, great response on the President. Fine operation all around, under the circumstances."
"There appears to be disagreement over that," Elke said, pointing at the vidwall.
They all turned to see what she indicated.
"—after a miserable failure at protecting President Bishwanath, these contract security personnel were rescued and escorted back to the palace by UN-commanded U.S. Army soldiers." Jason recognized the speaker as the redhead with the huge knockers.
"Just who are these 'contractors'? According to the company's official release, they are 'highly trained, motivated military veterans with exceptional ability in executive protection.' But what did we find when looking them over?"
The screen cut to a telephoto of Elke. "Checking crowd, no immediate threats, nothing but freaks."
"Confirm freaks."
The redhead said, "Freaks was their term for the loyal followers of Representative Dhe. This term was repeated several times—" Cut to Jason saying, "Freaks and scum."
Jason was pissed. He'd always regarded the press as traitors and barely restrained his desire to physically clobber them when encountering them. He glanced at Elke. Elke was glowing infrared. Utterly motionless. Hell hath no fury, he thought, and this woman scorned liked playing with explosives.
"We interviewed these alleged experts after the meeting, and here's what we were told . . ."
Cut to Elke on camera. "We have an ongoing task of planning and executing security in the palace and for events, rehearsing, training, making advance trips to locations. We're busy pretty much all day, every day."
Cut to a long range, fuzzy image of Elke dumping the H&K, then Elke, Alex, and Bishwanath tumbling out of the limo in an undignified heap.
"Hypothetically, if there was an attack at one of these functions, would you work to protect other victims? Or is only the President your concern?"
Elke: "Obviously, the President's safety is our primary concern. Once we have ensured that, we are available to help others, depending on the situation."
Cut back to her dumping out the carbine in the general direction of a crowd. Cut to close-ups of victims getting shot, though the light didn't quite match and it could have been taken anywhere.
Repeat: "Once we have ensured that, we are available to help others, depending on the situation."
Cut to them running for the house, explosions in the background. Then of the crowd writhing on the ground, though that had been caused by the military.
Cut to Aramis answering some question, "It would be a hard call to make, but passersby are not really our problem," then a close-up of dead bodies near where the attack had taken place.
Bart erupted at the screen, "That is one of the bastards who crashed into us!"
Back to the reporter. "So we have a team of what amount to mercenaries guarding the President, who regard innocent bystanders as merely obstacles to be shot and disregarded. They have at least once injured the President in the very act of 'protecting' him, and consider running from a fight and into cover as the right solution to the problem. This is putting strain on our already overworked soldiers, who must then clean up the mess left behind."
Weilhung appeared on camera. "There is some stickiness, seeing as we have . . . different procedures for operating."
"It's aggravating?"
"It can be, especially since they're not accountable"—there was a cut from his face as more of the attack was shown—"and some of our people resent the difference in pay scale."
Back to the reporter. "The contract for Ripple Creek is a round-the-clock deal. Each individual is on contract, not hired, and there are six for the President, plus two supplemental personnel. There are several others groups operating for various dignitaries. The cost on these contracts is ten thousand marks a day, for the six primary contracts. So what does BuState, who is ultimately responsible, get for all that money?"
Montage: "Not really our problem." Attacker moaning and bloody. "We are available to help others." Elke and then Jason dumping out full sticks. Screaming people running and hit in some engagement somewhere.
"There was a sad, ironic aftermath to this monumental failure," the reporter said, filling the screen again. "The house they chose as cover belonged to a senior citizen. Here's how her door looked afterwards. Yo
"That was the Army, goddamit," Shaman muttered.
Flash to Dhe. "Obviously, I am shocked and saddened that someone has attacked President Bishwanath. He and I had a productive talk on the needs of the poor, and I am glad to hear he is well. At the same time, the incompetent support he has is likely a big reason so many necessary programs are awaiting funding. It's not just his guards who are hindering operations.