When Diplomacy Fails . . . by Michael Z. Williamson
She stepped up, slapped on a patch, took a large step sideways, and popped the lock. Or rather, banged it. His goggles stopped a few sharp tatters of plastic, and he caught one in his teeth, which he swept clear and spit.
Lionel looked at Aramis, who nodded. He kicked the door wide, waved his carbine down the empty stairs, then took point.
Not quite empty stairs. They’d been used for storage once the tunnels were no longer used.
“Ears,” Lionel said. Bart checked Highland was wearing hers.
In enclosed quarters, even moderated guns were loud. His burst shredded several boxes, that seemed to be full of paper copies of documents.
“Ah, crap.”
“Let me,” Elke said. “Back in the hall.”
Bart was in the doorway and stepped aside. The front two backed out, leaving Elke to fish out something, toss it, then step aside herself.
“Fire in the hole.”
A roaring nimbus erupted from the doorway, blowing cindered paper and heavier chunks. He felt an overpressure slap. Highland whimpered, JessieM yelped. The rest flinched and waited. Five seconds later, Elke threw a thumb up and led the way.
He turned in and found she’d made worthy headway, but there was more crap down there, the lowest levels at the bottom of the landing were molded and slimy. Down the next flight, some stuff had tumbled and slipped in a small avalanche, but by careful foot placement they could step and ease their way through hot embers, acrid smoke, clutter and trash.
At the bottom, Aramis had opened the tunnel door himself, with a pry bar.
From the rear, Shaman said, “Hear that?”
They froze momentarily, and Alex heard small arms combat.
“They’re mixing it up now. Hopefully that will slow them.”
“What’s the plan?” Lionel asked as they trooped into the tunnel. A crouch was possible, but Alex knew he’d be crippled after a hundred meters of that. He went to his knees, as Aramis and Bart had.
They stirred up dust that was a combination of spores, grit and drifting insulation. He grabbed for a paper mask and dragged it over his head. Some still got through, and his breathing was hindered by the filter matrix holding his hot exhalations. Still, it was a hindrance, not a stoppage.
Aramis’s voice was muffled by a mask, and echoed oddly. He said, “We go across the street, well, under it. That puts us outside the epicenter. We then go up, and wait to see who comes looking for us. They have to fight through the confusion, and we’ll have a good position.”
Behind him, it was Highland who asked, “What if they wait us out?” She coughed from dust seeping around her mask.
“They’ll want to be fast, and take the opportunity. The longer it goes on, the more likely we are to get backup. Their resources are finite. This assumes they’re logical and reasonable.”
She said, “Huble will be. I don’t know about Lezt.”
“We’ll hope others are, too, or that they make mistakes.”
Elke’s voice said, “Ready to close this end.”
He really wasn’t sure about that. They needed cover and concealment, and to stop pursuit. It was also useful to create the impression that they might be dead. Against that, though, was that they’d be trapped underground, hoping the other end was no worse than this one had been, and that if Elke missed a calculation, it might cave in on top of them.
“As soon as everyone is in, do it,” Aramis said.
“No time,” she insisted. “They’re entering the building now.”
“Everyone move! Babs, do it!”
Behind him came shouts and scrabbles, then a breath-stealing bang! That blew debris past him. The ground shook and rumbled and continued to do so, as he scurried like a rat, except a rat had proper feet and wouldn’t wear out its knees the way he was, even with kneepads.
“Elke, it’s still rumbling!” he said.
“The building was unstable. A large part is coming down. Think of it as free bonus destruction.”
“Can it hurt us?”
“I accounted for it.”
If he ever got married again, he’d never be able to trust even a wife the way he trusted Elke.
Aramis said, “There’s already a news churp that Ms. Highland may have died in fighting in the capital.”
She snarled, “Those crab-picking snot ghouls.”
Alex said, “After last time, you think they’d learn not to—”
Aramis cut in with, “BuState denies dead in fighting, insists kidnapped by factions. I’m getting a feed of ‘her’ calling for help and demanding peace from her supporters.”
Highland said, “You were right.” It was so soft it would have been inaudible, except he’d been hoping for it, and hoping not to be right.
“Yes, ma’am, they’re going to build you up heroically, try to kill you, and load your presence into the party. If they can’t do that, look for some embarrassing content to make its way out shortly.”
Elke apparently had reception on her gear. “The Sunni are offering a reward for her capture as a war criminal. The Amala are offering to match it, dead or alive. Highland Campaign Concordance is demanding the government arrest the preceding groups.”
“They’re in quite a frenzy. Good.”
“Access ahead,” Aramis advised.
“Open?”
“Welded.”
“Shit. Elke, forward.”
“I am the creeping thing,” she said.
They pulled up and stopped, face to heel, almost face to ass. A minute later, Elke crawled past, brushing the wall as she did so.
“This is going to be loud. Cover ears, open mouths, stand by. Any alibis? Fire in the hole.”
The explosion sounded deep and low, but felt like a kick in the guts from an elephant. The overpressure absolutely crushed him in the enclosed space. The dust turned opaque, and over it all was a ringing noise where the metal had yielded to Elke’s ministrations.
It still wasn’t open, though he assumed her blast had done as intended. She was neither cursing in Czech nor preparing a second charge.
A tug at his ankles was Highland, who crawled closer and muttered, “Alex, are there clean clothes available?”
He wasn’t going to ask which way she’d cut loose. These things happened in war, and her expression was completely forlorn.
“Not at present, ma’am. I’ll see what we can find.”
“Thank you.”
Aramis pried at the metal, Bart shoved, and shortly it shrieked and relented.
Aramis said, “Yeah, a lot more trash here, and ripe. Wow.”
The stench indicated the stairwell at this end had obviously been used as a latrine, trash dump and general pit. There were coffee scents, rot, piss, fermented vegetables and god only knew what else.
Behind, another round of rumbles started.
Elke said, “That was not me. Someone just struck the other building.”
“So they know we’re in this area. Move.”
Aramis said, “Yeah, there’s a plastic pallet here. We can walk over that for a few steps.”
“Whatever helps. Move!”
Fortunately, it was mostly stink, though the floor was slimy and disgusting. “Watch your step!” he advised, as he crawled through the hatch onto the pallet, stood and turned.
Bad news, they had a ladder, not stairs, though there was a small landing at the top.
“Okay, this place already stinks, everybody drain. That corner, ladies first.”
Aramis and Shaman stood there facing out, creating some illusion of privacy. Highland looked embarrassed and ashamed. Jessie half-moved and hesitated, stuck between needing to and unable to, until Elke grabbed her and went back herself. Cady said, “I’m fine.”
Several of the men took turns to unzip and drain, and Alex went last as Aramis ascended the ladder behind him. There was a respectable puddle, several liters, but the detritus on the ground was so squishy it didn’t seem it would matter.
That done, he turned to the stairs and
The door was partly off the hinges and askew. Beyond it was a cabinet of some kind.
There was movement to the sides, and he got the impression there were combatants.
Aramis had a pen-sized periscope, and Bart slid a small probe through another crack. Good. Elke’s shotgun-fired recon rounds would not help here.
Aramis whispered, “There are four routes underground we could have taken. That disrupts the pursuit. This appears to be local militia. Red bandanas with Arabic as their uniform.”
From the ladder, Jason asked, “Does it say ‘Arm of God’?”
“How the fuck would I know? I don’t speak Arabic. Hold on. Bart?”
Bart nodded, fingered controls, and pulled an image. It meant little to Alex, though it was familiar. Jason said, “Yes, that’s them. Sunni. Adequately trained. Looks like they have current generation gear.”
Alex asked, “Estimate on numbers?”
“Possibly thirty in this space. Beyond that, unknown.”
He sighed. Frontal firefights were a bad thing, even with the element of surprise. These guys had rifles, light armor, and looked ready to rumble.
“Well, we do what we have to. We can take them. But some discretion would have been nice.”
Jason said, “My Arabic is good enough I can sound like an Amala.”
“Will they believe it, the way we’re dressed?”
“Shouting will do it.”
“Likely. Then I guess we do. Judgment calls. Balance ammo with damage. Aramis and Bart split the front. I’ll take forward.”
Cady said, “I’m on the right,” and shifted her carbine to a left-handed stance. She and Jason were both largely ambidextrous.
Jason said, “I’ve got right. Marlin, Lionel, take left. Ms. Highland, Jessie, huddle down in the middle while we clear some space, then be ready to sprint for cover. Shaman, Elke, stay with them, bring them up the rear”
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 antiair.
“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.
CHAPTER 26
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
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 first-hand 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.”
“Oh,” she said, and pulled at her phone. She seemed lucid, but slowed. That wasn’t the trank, that was shock.
“Corcoran, cover me,” he said and slid down next to her. He took the phone from her, unshielded it, slid in the battery.