The Weapon by Michael Z. Williamson
While he handled his stuff, I called Greg. "Get a visit from the tooth fairy?" I asked.
"Funny you should mention that," he said. "I guess our recon was wrong." The look on his face said he didn't believe it, either.
"So it seems," I said. "Well, I'll come out later today and we can see where we went wrong." We swapped a few pleasantries and disconnected.
* * *
The "final" assessment we came up with was still an incomplete one, but it told us everything we needed to know. The military at various levels were supporting certain factions in given areas out of personal reasons. The military as a whole, meaning the Bureau of Defense civilian force under UN guidance, was supporting the Shia. Why, I have no idea. Sufis I could see, but the Shia? Maybe somebody knew where the body was buried and was using it for leverage. The Union of Federal Government Employees was supporting a Marxian sect of the Sunni from political reasons. The UN Embassy was supporting the Sufis, as were we and some of the UN intelligence agencies. Three or four religious "charities" on planet were supporting the Felts Believers wackos. Everyone had an axe to grind and the system was so full of holes that anyone with a credit could get illicit, controlled merchandise.
In other words, the Law of Supply and Demand continued to work, despite any simpering do-gooder idiocy. The factions wanted to kill each other. To do this, they would swap money for weapons. Nothing was going to stop that. Out of professional paranoia, we checked our own stocks. Mostly, they agreed. The few discrepancies were either combat-lossed equipment or a few personal incidents that were tactically unimportant even if they did call for disciplinary action. Apparently, some of the Freehold based mercenary companies were providing "security" for various towns and infrastructure. A majority of them are veterans of the FMF. It appeared they were calling in favors from friends for additional supplies. Dealable with, and understandable. But we'd have to assume that anyone we fought had decent quality hardware and plenty of ammo. Which we already knew. Of course, the UN politicians kept insisting the elephant was a rope, a tree, or a kazoo.
Chapter 12
Many of us flipped out on Mtali. I wasn't the first.
Maybe "flipped out" is the wrong term. I didn't go insane. I did get outraged, furious, angry beyond words at the waste and stupidity of the human race. I became convinced of my own superiority to the point where I no longer thought of the locals as a combination of poor and/or stupid, but as less than human, filthy animals to be exterminated.
The UN was posing in the cities for PR shots for the "stability" they'd brought. Meanwhile, we got stuck with every nasty, gritty real military mission. They were all the same—some group of assholes would shoot up a school bus to "punish" that faction for blowing up a church, who'd done that in retaliation for someone spitting on someone else. With the Muslims, it went back to who was the proper heir of Muhammad some 2000 years ago. With the Christian Coalition, it went back to which version of scripture was correct and whether God was a trinity or a sole deity. With the Feltsies, it was still a debate over whether "fags" should be castrated or just killed, "adulterous" women stoned or simply exiled, and nonbelievers killed or only beaten. We and the few real UN troops left would go in and separate them like scratching children, and it would start all over again. It was tiresome.
The trigger for me was a call we got regarding an Amala village. It seems that some locals lost contact with the village and went to ascertain the situation. When they got there, they puked at what they saw and called the Unos. The Unos heaved their guts and called us to join the party. We got rather ill, too.
The village was a razed, smoking ruin. It takes a petty child to raze a village. All the rude huts were torched, every possession destroyed or defiled and the occupants were missing. It wasn't hard to figure out where they were. There was a roughly filled and mounded pit behind one of the hovels. The first responders had started digging, then called for help.
I stared into that hole, dark and earthy and filled with the disgusting stench of rotten flesh. Local and imported Earth refuse eaters were turning the bodies into a gooey, slimy slush of indistinct blobs melding together. But I could see enough to make me choke vomit, and I've eaten things and seen things that would gag a maggot.
The bottommost corpses were adult men, all with severe wounds. They'd fought and died. Above them were the women, growing younger as the depth grew shallower, until the topmost of them was around ten Earth years. The tattered clothing told me all I needed to know. They'd been raped and worse. Some of the violations were out of Jack the Ripper's legend, and bespoke a mind gifted in its sickness. And above all those, in decreasing age, were the children.
They'd killed the adult males, who were a threat. They'd raped and tortured and slowly killed the women, who culturally and spiritually were far less so. And they'd made the children watch, made them learn about death and terror and hatred for . . . how long? Until at last they'd shot the kids one by one, from oldest down to youngest.
What horror had those smallest experienced, knowing only that dreadful things were happening to everyone they knew, to the people on whom they depended for everything in the world? And what had they felt, watching their playmates one by one, kneel, cry and die? Watching and hearing the crack of a pistol, seeing the convulsion of the body, the splattering of brains and face, the slump into a quickly filling hole? Had they understood that they'd be next?
I was revolted beyond anything I can describe. Then I was revolted worse to find I understood the logic. It was logic based on flawed postulates, and proceeded without compassion or conscience to an end I could not condone. But it was a logic. I knew I wanted to use that same exact logic to hunt down the perpetrators and end this atrocity, and I hated myself for that.
I turned to Naumann, and he said nothing while I got my mouth clear enough of saliva and bile to speak. "Boss," I rasped, "we are going hunting. I don't want to answer any questions, and I don't want to file any reports."
He looked back at me, face unmoved but stiff, and said, "Assets are at your disposal, Warrant Leader."
* * *
I planned the operation. I executed the operation. I used one squad: mine. The whole operation was pure psych warfare. And it worked. It was unpleasant, like surgery on a child, but necessary, I thought. I've never liked that "greater good" crap, because it's too easy to slip down the slope to Marxian or Fascist oppression and find yourself justifying it as right.
"Unpleasant" isn't a strong enough word. It almost put me in the giggle ward, and still bothers me after everything that's happened since.
* * *
I knowingly violated rule one: I made us stand out. We got into black uniforms. We stayed in blacks. From head to toe, our gear was black. No matter the terrain or the daylight. I wanted them to know who we were. We planned to sow terror on a scale even these lice pickers would shiver at, and the mere sight of a figure in black would make them shit their pants.
We hit hard. Our first target was the village that logic and forensics said was responsible for this atrocity. We landed far back in the woods and hiked in.
The vertol hovered low, and we rappelled slowly through the impeller wash, rather than using the barely controlled fall of fast-roping. I hit first, took three large steps and sought cover behind a tree. Kirby was with us, and his two assistants slowed him. Leopards can't rappel. I stayed attentive with finger on trigger, just as a precaution. No, there were no threats here, but I couldn't know that and needed to get into the right mindset at once. The right mindset is "paranoid."
Those woods were thick. About like heavy second-growth on Grainne or Earth. Lush enough, considering the overall climate, tangled and green and dense enough for great concealment and muting of sound. We found game paths and beaten areas, slipping through them with practiced ease. We avoided the few "roads" that were mere rutted trails, and the places where children obviously played under fallen trees or in cozy glens. It took most of the morning to move ten kilometers, and we were well-dren
We let lunch settle for a while. Once we were ready and rested, we wriggled the last kilometer.
It wasn't much of a village. The huts were built with polymer panels and corrugated sheet metal roofs, but they were still huts. There was electricity of a sort, furnished by a solar generator with nuclear backup. I doubted they ran that often, as they couldn't afford the uranium nor the service charge. There were no village roads to speak of, merely dead grass with occasional boards over puddles. Hell of a way to live. In this day and age even.
Twenty huts. About eighty inhabitants, twenty of them mature males. One support weapon there, and about ten men with archaic rifles. I mean ancient—they were magazine in front of trigger assembly type weapons.
At my order, everyone triggered Boost. Then we rose as one and swarmed them.
We went in fast. At a Boosted sprint, I covered fifty meters in about eight seconds, in gear and across rough terrain. I wasn't seen until it was too late. The two men I'd picked were jabbering away, and spun just as I arrived and clocked them with a stun baton.
They'd only seen a black figure. I had no features for them to discern. This was good. I'd be staying hidden while the others finished the task.
* * *
"Black Ghosts," I heard muttered in awe as my people rounded them up.
"Why aren't these filthy, stinking hovels in flames? Why haven't these whores been raped yet?" I shouted. Barto got a good closeup of my face on camera as I stormed in.
The women of the village whimpered. No one noticed that we were speaking in Arabic. Frank turned to me and said, "Sir, I wasn't sure, and . . ." he trailed off. Good act.
"I've told you how many times?" I continued. "First we torch the hovels, we rape the whores next because it's sexier by firelight, then we chop the children to bits, shove our barrels down the throats of the men and splatter them, then waste the whores as we leave!"
"Yes, sir!" he snapped, looking properly cowed.
I said, "Well, we're short on time. Go round up the brats."
And there was the cue. A young father with huge balls opened his trap and said, "You filth! At least let the children go. They didn't do anything."
"They're Shia. That makes them the enemy, and they die." I punctuated by smashing the butt of my carbine into his cheek and salaaming him to the ground. He went down, blood splashing. Barto moved in to get some good photos. We had these peasants convinced we did this for pleasure.
"Do the headman last," I ordered, while stamping around. I was acting like a tin-plated little dictator. Well, some claim I am. "And his whore. Let them enjoy the show."
"Son of a dog!" that worthy called, identifying himself.
"WHERE ARE THOSE BRATS?" I roared. I turned back to him and said, "If I kill you for the deaths of your neighbors, the brats will grow up wanting revenge. If I kill them, you'll do worse than you have already. So you all die. Easy solution. No Shia, no Shia problem." I had a sick grin on my face and bright eyes while I said it.
The kid I'd belted struggled to his feet. "How can you kill children, you fucker?" he asked. "They did nothing!"
"Why didn't you think of that before you killed the Amala babies?" I asked. "They were worthy of your hate, so why should mine be different?"
At that, one of the mothers burst into wailing tears. Barto got her on video. She was stricken. They seriously believed that we'd watch this later, laughing and eating popcorn.
The kids were released from the hut just then, and came shrieking, running toward their mothers, who bundled them close and hugged them, bawling as their offspring did. Their faces were colorless and lifeless. They knew death when they saw it, and they saw their own staring at them. Several fell to their knees and began praying, some to Allah, some to me. They called me "Lord."
Then the men got into it. The headman broke ranks and came forward, bowing to the ground. His skinny old knees were rattling like cold teeth. "Please, Lord!" he began. "I beg you! Show mercy on our children! Kill me, hurt me, do as you will, but not the children!"
I remained aloof, waiting for him to offer the bargain. If I did, it would smack of setup. So I waited. He groveled at my feet.
"I confess before Allah that we murdered innocents!" he said. It was muffled in the dirt, but we got it in ram, and that was good intel. "I confess that we helped the Revenants—" (one of their factions)—"I confess that we did so of our own will. Before Allah, we have sinned. All praise be to Allah!"
He ran on as I stormed around, shouting orders, rounding them all up in a tight group, the better to make them feel like sheep at the slaughter.
Then was when he did it. I had been running out of delays and was worried about my next move. He caught his cue just in time. "Please, Lord!" he begged me, hands clasped in supplication.
"What do you expect from me? Mercy?" I demanded. "Why?"
"We are not worthy," he moaned, shaking his head. "I freely offer my life for the sins of my people. And those of my wife and family and all the men, but spare the children and their mothers, I beg you!" The other adults were nodding and leaning toward me, hands clasped.
"Why now the courage?" I asked, quietly.
"Before Allah I am shamed!" he replied. "I should have obeyed the scriptures. I let my anger and fear rule my actions, and not Allah's will. But I offer our lives as penance, and pray that Allah will cause you to spare our children, that our village will continue."
"I think he means it, boss," Kirby said. The growling leopards were sending the children through the roof. I was glad I'd thought of bringing them.
I hesitated, strode around him, and finally stood in front of him. Gently, I lofted my boot toe under his chin. "Stand," I said.
He staggered to his feet, weeping so loudly he could barely speak or hear.
"Now," I said, "I don't like you. I don't like any of you. My job is to bring peace. And in death there is peace." I leaned in close and locked eyes with him. "I'd rather just wipe this whole fucking district off the map with a nuke. But that's not up to me." I pulled back, to emphasize the point.
He knew deep inside that he was doomed, and everyone with him. Perfect. Now to give faint hope. "But if I don't have to come back here . . . perhaps I can convince my commander to let some of you live."
A smile of hope started to cross his lips. I quashed it. "I said 'maybe.'" I said, and he dropped back into the depths. "He's a hard man. But we have many villages to visit. We will visit them all, of course, but some are less trouble than others."
"We will never be trouble for you, Lord!" he assured me, fast and stuttering. "None have—"
"Shut up," I said. He did. "There are to be no, none, zero, no killings of anyone. If you need to punish a criminal, you lock them up and call us first. We want this district quiet, and we'll do whatever it takes to accomplish that."
"Yes, Lord, thank you, Lord!" he replied.
"One dead child, and I kill you all. And I want to kill you all, so don't even think it," I insisted, moving in close again. I'd eaten raw garlic that morning, on purpose. He tried not to flinch as I breathed it in his face.
"Yes, Lord!" he nodded.
"Allah has spoken to you. And he speaks to me, too. If any are harmed, I will know."
"Yes, Lord! Allah is merciful! We know that Allah is the true God. We thank him for interceding and softening your heart!"
"None will attack you. If they do, you call us. We will take care of it." I gave him a grin that was far from friendly, and he quailed. He couldn't even speak, just nodded.
They were all wailing and praying at that. I walked over to the group, and pulled out the mouthy one, who was bleeding and groggy but tracking, and two others. Proper stage presence kept all eyes on me as the squad began to fade into the woods. To punctuate my speech, I pointed my carbine at the head of the newest babe, perhaps a week old, snuggling against its mother's breast. The mother began to cry again. "If I come back,
The rest of the team had slipped away as the village nodded and shivered and agreed, and I turned to walk off. "We'll take these three—" I indicated who I meant—"back to our base for questioning. Perhaps they can live if the commander is generous, and if they speak readily."
There were sighs at that. Everyone knew the tough young men of the village would never talk over military matters, and would die. I hadn't threatened the children if they were silent, so everyone knew in their guts the men were dead.
I disappeared into the trees, driving the prisoners ahead of me, doing my unconscious best to seem a shadow. I faded from their view, but could hear the mutterings again of "Black Ghosts." They thought us supernatural and inhuman.
So, to drive the point home, we traveled at a trot. The squad fell in with me within a few paces, and we ran. The path was familiar, clear on our tacs, and we made good time. Our poor, undernourished peasants couldn't hack the speed. After 10 km, they were collapsing from sheer exhaustion. That too, was planned. We ran that regularly. We were well fed and rested. We were buzzing from Boost.
"Leave them," I said. "We don't need them. There's better intel elsewhere."
"Shoot them?" Neil asked, following my cue.
"No, just leave them. Why waste ammo?" I replied. We kept running, and left them to wander back slowly and tell of how we ran through the deep woods, and were barely bothered by the exertion, while they could not keep the pace. More image for us.
We managed to cow most of the villages into outright fear. Occasionally, we would be able to identify particular troublemakers who operated in small cells. When we did, we shot them like rats where we found them. Some disappeared in their sleep, often from inside their own homes and were never seen again. We moved across the province in swaths, visiting villages, promising, threatening, being sociable as called for. Everyone knew of the Black Ghosts. Everyone knew they were omnipotent killers who didn't answer to the UN. No lawyers or bureaucrats to restrain them, the Black Ghosts were judge and executioner, with no jury. Even villages that had no connection to the fighting panicked when they saw us, wondering what they could have done to deserve a visit. A few facts around us permeated the haze, and it came to be understood that we took no action against minor squabbles or peaceful farmers, but were impartial killers of anyone partaking in organized fighting. No one dared defy us, or question our authority.