“It kills me to wait.”
“I bet it does.”
“Permission to leave?”
“We're to wait in the hangar until Art is free, Burton.”
Captain Cameron sat quietly with one leg crossed, reading on his tablet.
“Have you seen the latest reports from the scouts out west? There's been more fighting on the border in the last week,” he announced with a mischievous chuckle. “I bet that's why they called us.”
Burton got up from where he'd been lying on his back, waiting.
“Yes, most likely. They're going too far, Cam.”
“Well, the way the picture's looking, I don't think Art's going to have any choice but to put them back on domestic threat status. And it will be the Border War all over again.”
For years, Cinia's military forces had had problems with subversive groups, weak enemies of regional nations. Territory, goods, gangsterism, political differences: the usual. These attacks had subsided in recent years, and so they had been put aside, far away on the border. But in the last few weeks, they had returned with a vengeance, spreading throughout the territory and, once again, began defensive battles that seemed to have no end.
A shadow blocked the light for a moment and passed.
“A little late, don't you think, Lieutenant?”
The aforementioned man stopped next to the team's aircraft at the back of the hangar.
“Yes, I'm sorry, Captain.” He checked the time on his wrist communicator device.
His own communicator began to beep, and Cam was amused by the timing. He stood up slowly, smiling.
“Captain Rodger Cameron here, come in.” He adjusted it and wiped the small screen with his thumb.
“Confirm that this is the Captain of the Fifth Squad of Discreet Operations,” the operator on the other end ordered.
“Affirmative, license CC501.”
With no further response, the video call was redirected to General Ness. Cam was one of his closest captains, but that was not the reason he assigned them to their duties, no, it was because they belonged to the Discreet Operations Branch, part of the Special Operations Division and partner of the Reconnaissance Division of the Intelligence Department. The DOB occupied a very sensitive position within the military, and they usually reported directly to him.
“Captain, I know that your team feels that we have given you too much menial work on this base, outside of your professional field. You will be pleased to know that we have marked a large deserter and rebel camp. This one has been known to us for some time as a hotbed of suspicious activity, possibly related to the attacks and looting our cities have suffered. Our observations suggest they are organizing something larger than a local skirmish.”
“Of course, General,” he replied, his tone perhaps overconfident.
“It is outside our western border, in Kennéh, so I need very subtle maneuvers so as not to alarm the subjects in the area and our neighboring nation.”
“I understand, sir.” He raised the volume of his voice: “What is the background? Why is it on the blacklist?”
“We've known about it since the beginning of the Border War against the first factional groups, although it didn't come on my radar until the seventy-first. Responding to an alert from Kennéh, we sent a threat assessment company to the abandoned town of Sarzo, where we had received information that a terrorist camp was located. The mission was simple: search the area for such people and decide whether they were a real threat. Of course, they were a real threat, and I had to order the camp dismantled. Everything was normal until the third night, when a mutiny broke out. One of my captains, Scott Wilker, led it.”
“Scott Wilker, sir?”
“Yes, an excellent officer, promising until he deserted. He and most of the soldiers with him deserted their posts and joined Sarzo's camp or disappeared into the desert: two hundred and five active soldiers in all. Only a few soldiers remained scattered around our temporary base, completely unaware of what had just happened. We had to send more troops to investigate, but the town was deserted. The president of Kennéh was outraged that we had sent them, even though he had forbidden us to do so. I did not dare to break the law again. Since then, Intelligence has been keeping an eye on this old settlement. It was only a few months ago that we started registering movement in the area again.”
“What kind of movement?”
“There are trucks going in and out, and paramilitaries guard the area at all times. In essence, they have rebuilt the camp. And although the attacks occurred in different parts of Kennéh and Cinia, and with fleeting durations, some findings lead us to believe that they are related to this terrorist group and Wilker. These attackers know our strategies and are fighting us with very advanced knowledge for rebel citizens. Our bet is that they are getting help from professional soldiers. I mean, I think Wilker is involved as well as the rest of the mutinous soldiers.”
“If that's the case, the President will have to let us in,” Cam concluded. “Thoughts, Gerard?”
The First Lieutenant pondered.
“I don't know, it seems like too much. Why do you think he's involved?”
The general looked at him blankly.
“The analysts have seen footage of all the attacks, and although many of them wear helmets or sand scarves, in some cases it is possible to identify them. And it so happens that they have been able to match a handful of those faces to those of our mutineers. They are hidden in their ranks, Lieutenant.” His face softened. “They were following him. And they were only non-commissioned officers. No advanced tactical training, no access to the system. Wilker had it all, knew it all too well.”
Gerard nodded slowly.
“I see… Then I have no say in the matter: there are clearly good reasons.”
“Are we just doing reconnaissance?”
“That is correct, Captain. You are to photograph their faces and collect evidence that Wilker and the mutineers are part of the camp. The Kennéhsian government will have to give us permission. The camp has built a wall around its headquarters in the center of Sarzo. It would be best if you stay out of it, but if you must go in, you have permission. Just remember that these people are unusually hostile, and failure could cost you your life,” he sighed.
Burton wanly cleared his throat.
“General, wouldn't it be a good idea to ask Kennéh to help with the investigation? After all, Sarzo is in their country.”
“As soon as we have proof that Wilker is with them, but not before. The Kennéhsians… they're not as tactful as we are with delicate situations.”
“Oh, okay.”
“You depart at dawn, Fifth Squad. Out.”
“I wonder if… No, no,” Gerard muttered, so quiet that no one could hear him.
***
The evening wind blew hard and relentlessly against the old, weathered walls of Sarzo's buildings. And yet the inhabitants continued their rounds, stubborn, defiant; for if there was no human force that could intimidate and drive them back, least of all a mere gale full of dust. They scorned it with every step they took, bit it with every breath they inhaled through their parted lips and defeated it with every second their aching eyes remained open. This was how they faced everything, and they had no doubt that it was pure, distilled rage that drove them on despite everything.
Two of them found themselves in front of the rickety old neo-Gothic church in the town. One of them entered it and walked through the dusty nave to the much newer rear residential annex, where a small crowd was gathered in a large empty room in a semicircle, surrounding a tall man with a grim expression and dark hair in a faded, worn uniform. The man looked at the newcomer and silenced the discussion with a gesture.
“Sir, I have news from the capital!” called the guard.
“Since you dare to interrupt the meeting, it better be a good one,” he replied, his voice sounding slightly hoarse, oddly cadenced, considering the threat.
“Arthur Ness is on our tail. He's sending an DOB squad to spy on us.” He spat on the ground. “When will the old man learn?”
“Mmmh.” The news cheered him up. “Actually, I'm a little disappointed in him for taking so long to link us to the attacks on Cinia.” He laughed nonchalantly, “Well, let them come! They'll make excellent guinea pigs.”
Scott Wilker approached the only window in the room, small, pointy, unglazed. There was little daylight, but the city was still clearly visible. Sarzo had been small when it was alive, now it was nothing more than a pile of dilapidated, uninhabitable buildings. They had had to fence off the perimeter, a kilometer around with the church in the center. Barricades, minefields and, his favorite, automatic gun turrets. He wondered how the hell the spies would get in… Maybe he should blow up a few sections of the wall as a courtesy, turn off a few turrets.
He smiled smugly.
“He rails against me and against his own ex-soldiers. He tries in vain: he knows he can't achieve anything… But I'm wrong. Of course, he will achieve something: to be hated even more by those who don't go with the flow.” He walked slowly toward an old wooden and red-cloth armchair at the back of the room, making the room echo loudly with each step of his boots. “Next month's plan, Blackburn?”
“The attack on Cinia, General, the capture of the capital.”
“The days seem to be getting longer, don't they?”
“There isn't a moment when I don't think about it,” nodded the slim, lanky man with dark hair and a short beard, wearing a plain navy-blue suit, and his fists clenched.
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“Yes, the capital… Oh, the memories. I remember when Ness ordered me to come and inspect this place, or rather, to clear this place of camp members,” he chuckled quietly. “The man was very naive to think such a thing was possible. The camp was protected, the camp is protected now.”
“Is he coming here?” a pale, black-haired boy with a whispering voice suddenly asked. “Is that it?”
“Hey, stay where you are! Can't you see the general is busy?” growled one of the guards watching from the corner.
“It’s all right!” Wilker crossed his arms in front of the boy. “You see, Caleb: yes, it looks like it, and he's bringing his whole damn gang with him. But don't worry about that and remember why you're here. He won't touch you again,” he snapped reluctantly.
“But then nothing has changed? Maybe I can convince him not to attack us. Maybe if I could talk to him…
“Son, aren’t you the bravest of my soldiers?! But don't waste your time with him. He won't be able to do anything… In fact, no one will be able to do much now.” A maniacal laugh came over him and he looked around at everyone present. “Here is the final question of today's meeting; waiting another month is too much for me, and for you?”
The shouts of everyone in the room unanimously agreed with their leader's new resolution; it was time to end the skirmishes once and for all.
***
The deputy chief of Discreet Operations tapped his tablet a few times, pointing to Cam's PCC (the acronym for “Personal Computer Communicator,” the wrist device they all wore).
“These are all the reports from the last month. They'll be sent to everyone else's, too. And this: the latest maps and lots of reports on the enemy, their weapons, their equipment, and other known details.”
“Thank you, Major Lieber,” Cam searched for the newly downloaded files. “We'll devour these on the way.”
He glanced at the uniform; the one they, the DOBs, wore was light. They wore a light bulletproof vest over the shirt, very light shoulder pads that clung to the vests, and were made of three overlapping pieces, very flexible. They were paired with two thick aramid fiber avambraces, tactical gloves underneath, and high leather boots on their feet. Their trousers bulged a bit where they met the boots, as they were tucked in, and their belts had several pouches where they carried the smaller tools. There was his multi-tool and the holster for his pistol, grenades, and knife. And the helmet, classic, simple, with the identification of his squad “DOB-5” on the side. All in brown and amber camouflage, rather dull, but suitable for the desert; crucial for those who worked on the quiet.
They were in the old hangar again, except now the roof was retracted, and Burton went over their ship again with the help of a small robotic mechanic’s assistant, one of those utility robots that had become so common in every industry and even in homes.
It was dark, quiet, cold, and there were thirty minutes left before dawn.
A brown-haired woman in uniform came in, walking naturally, sunglasses on her forehead, helmet under her arm and a big smirk on her face. She stopped right next to her superiors.
“Frankie?” Cam was happily surprised.
“Lieutenant Lard, reporting to Hangar 05 as ordered, sir.” She saluted them both.
“I haven't seen you in months! Weren't you sent to spy on the northern border?”
“I got back two days ago, but I was busy, you know, visiting family. Then Art said my beloved team was leaving without me. I can't let that happen!” She looked at him with mock indignation.
“Well, I won't hide it: I doubted that you would ever return and that this was indeed a squad. “He bowed theatrically to her.”
Burton stumbled out of the ship.
“Hello Frances. It's been a long time!”
“Hey, Burton. How's it going? Got that junk finished yet?”
“Oh, yeah! The Falconer is ready to go,” he replied enthusiastically.
“Captain, we're cleared for takeoff,” Gerard reported from the other side of the hangar.
“Then let's go. Tell Air Control.”
He looked up at the sky and wrinkled his nose slightly with a faint smile.
Burton pulled his little assistant out of the craft and settled into his seat, the pilot's seat.
The Falconer's engines and propellers lifted it vertically and it set a course north. They would arrive in less than two hours.
The heliplane, the Falconer, the aircraft of the Fifth Squad, was a reconnaissance aircraft. An innovative cross between a small plane and a large, powerful twin propeller helicopter, camouflaged in brown shades. Fifteen meters from nose to tail and with a wingspan of thirteen and a half meters, small and aerodynamic, the only weapons incorporated were two machine guns on the sides and a light cannon. Its rear section housed weapons, accessories, and a small ground vehicle. It was practically another member of the team.
“Do you want to bet for or against the deserters’ hypothesis?” the girl suggested.
“For,” Burton replied, glancing at her sideways. “But I don't think it would matter much, Art would still find a way to get troops in.”
“Burton, eyes to the front,” Cam scolded him.
“Whether they're there or not doesn't mean he is,” Gerard thought slowly, “although if he is, I'll make sure I'm in the front row when they stage the attack.”
“I think the important thing here is that whatever his role is in the game, we get a bit of a head start,” Cam reckoned. “Speaking of a head start, guys, don't forget to read all those reports.”
“Yes, sir.”
They continued past the border, which was marked by a dry, uninhabited valley. They were not afraid of attracting the attention of the enemy in the distance. The noise of the engine and propellers was like the murmur of a mouse, like a pleasant hum; a sound that made it easy for the crew to concentrate and glide. In addition, its small size and design made it almost invisible to the naked eye, and even the most common radars could not detect its fragile presence. But the distance soon became too small to rely on camouflage any longer: Sarzo was in sight, still far away, but there it was.
“We need an isolated and nearby place to land. Put up the maps and we'll see,” the captain asked.
Frances laughed softly and pointed to one of the onboard monitors.
“I am way ahead of you. How about dropping down into the foothills of that canyon?”
Burton glanced sideways at her again.
“That's a good idea. There's a gentle basin near the mouth, and flat ground below. The rock walls will hide us.”
“Burton,” she said a little teasingly, “how professional you sound.”
“Yes… Ah… You know, you do what you can. I-I have to keep an eye on the controls, but thanks.”
He looked away with a satisfied gesture.
“Okay. Here we go!” Cam commanded, perky, ready for the next step.
“He shouldn't be so happy to be back on stalking duty,” Burton whispered, rather amused, to which Frances responded with a slap.
“We are not stalking!”
He ruffled his hair.
“Ouch…”
Frances narrowed her eyes.
“Focus, both of you!” Cam ordered, though he was in complete agreement with his pilot.
The Falconer landed at the mouth of the kennéhsian canyon, a section with many rock formations and shadows. They only had to roll it a short distance until it was almost stuck to the stone wall behind a convex curve.
It was scorching hot, but unlike the capital, there were no storms blowing day and night. Sarzo was surrounded by flat mountains that lessened the scourge of the wind.
All around was nothing but cacti, bushes, the occasional parched tree, and the varied sands of the Kennéh desert; but mostly there were rocks, large and small, that provided shelter for the small animals of the place. And in front of them was the outline of the small town of Sarzo, with that peculiar church in the center, where the Cinians suspected was the center of operations.
“Well, team. Get the trotter out.”
Frances pushed a few buttons on the back of the Falconer and the cargo door opened.
Gerard mounted the trotter and carefully led it out of the ship.”
Next to the space occupied by the thing was a steel chest attached to the wall. Frances unlocked the lid and pulled out a handful of goggles and communication headsets.
“Okay, everyone, take your pair.”
The headsets consisted of an earpiece that went into the right ear and a small, thin microphone that sat flush against the cheeks. On top of that were the glasses, black, with a dark honey-colored visor. They put them on at full speed.
“Okay, it's going to be batons, knives, guns, and smoke grenades,” Cam announced excitedly, pointing to the chest with his chin. Let's go!
The soft and moderate humming of the trotter sounded like the purr of a big cat; a small military car with no windows and a light roof that reflected the sun's rays and kept the interior cool enough (it was not considerable, given the heat of the place); with a trapezoidal shape, four large tires held under the frame, and a brown camouflage color. His pace was fast but cautious.
“Stay alert. There shouldn't be any sentries out here, but it doesn't hurt to be careful.”
Gerard snorted with some impatience.
“Are you alright?” asked Burton, watching his mortified expression.
“Yeah. It's just the heat, Buck,” he apologized with a faint smile.
Cam was following behind them, but it didn't matter: it was easy to tell that he was worried, even if he couldn't see his face. Gerard had a way about him that oscillated between the calculating, dignified serenity of a veteran soldier and a subtle, withdrawn melancholy. And right now, he seemed to be in the middle. She saw him remove his helmet for a moment to straighten his disheveled black hair. It was down to his neck, no wonder he was hot. She would remind him to cut it later.
It wasn't long before they had to slow down and seek shade.
“Well, we're less than four kilometers from Sarzo.” Frances looked at her PCC. “I've seen this place several times from planes and helicopters. Between all these dilapidated shanties we can sneak up on the fortification. Some areas near the old wall are wide open, so we'll have to watch a bit before we get close,” she smiled, too pleased.
Cam sighed loudly.
“Don't forget there are only four of us and these people are very, very angry. We can't even think about it comfortably. If they find us, they'll kill us. Frankie, I love your attitude, but not here, okay?”
“Okay, fine,” she reluctantly obeyed and cleared her throat. “Then I think we're in the right place to continue on foot.”
The trotter stopped behind a small mound of dirt and dark stones that covered part of an old house. Sure enough, that dirt had been the second floor. Now it was filled with large rocks and dry bushes, inside and out. A hundred meters ahead was the wall.
“We'll stay here for a while,” Cam said. Identify any sentries or dangerous defenses.
He jumped down from the trotter, grabbed his weapon, and cautiously peered out from the mound. His squad scanned the area for similar positions. They watched the wall for a long time and were able to identify the sentry towers that gleamed every fifteen meters or so above them, but there were no watchmen; nothing could be heard nearby.
The semi-desert valley looked even more desolate than expected: not even the sounds of the wild animals that normally scurried through the shadows of the buildings and the few trees could be heard. The place gave the impression of total devastation. But this solitude was not reliable, no matter how widespread it might seem.
“This silence is very suspicious,” Gerard whispered, looking over his shoulder. He tightened his grip on his pistol.
“They must be around here somewhere, unless they retreated while we were on our way,” Cam replied.
“Maybe we should throw a small grenade, just to see if the turrets are working,” Frances suggested.
“Mmmh. Yeah, okay.”
“But we're not going to set it off, are we?”
"Lure them out here? No thanks,” Burton thought.
“Well, if the turret is active, it'll shoot the grenade and set it off, so…” Cam shrugged.
“Then we need an escape plan.”
We get on the trotter and run away in a panic,” Frances laughed.
“We spread out in the area,” Cam decided. “Then Frankie throws the grenade. When it goes off, everyone will find their own hiding place, as far away from the others as possible. And she takes the trotter with her in a panic, agreed?”
Yes, they agreed. It was better than hiding there all day.
One by one they moved away from the hill and ran towards the surrounding buildings. Then the lieutenant climbed onto the hill and, with a smile on her face, threw the grenade like a pro. Cam, Burton, and Gerard watched as it fell a few feet from the nearest turret and rolled on the ground until it hit the wall.
The turret did not move.
The girl climbed down from the hill and pressed the small button on her headset.
“Permission to move forward?”
Cam looked up at her from his hiding place with a raised eyebrow, serious.
“Granted, go slowly.”
She walked towards where the grenade had landed, keeping an eye on the two turrets surrounding her… They remained inert. He approached one of them and stood in front of it, his pistol pointed straight at its small camera.
“Cam, they are definitely not working,” she whispered to her micro.
“Received.” Cam turned on the squad channel. “The area is secure, go back to where we were.”
Frances pocketed the grenade and waited for them. Gerard was kneeling beside her, she on his shoulders. He stood up, then she did, and from there it was a simple matter of jumping. First, of course, she scanned the horizon on the other side: nothing. The barbed wire was easy to remove, she just used the laser on her multitool. She jumped down, crouched on top, and reached out to help the others. Burton was next to climb onto Gerard's shoulders. He was about to jump when something hit Cam's helmet. Then the object crashed indistinctly to the sand.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
“What is it?” jabbered Frances.
“It's… Shit.” He stepped back. “Get back!”
It exploded with a hiss, sending up a thick layer of foul-smelling grayish smoke.
“Cover your faces!” he yelled. He should have known! How could he not have known when it touched his head? Damn it!
“We are under attack! We must… respond…” Frances managed to articulate before collapsing unconscious behind the wall.
The sedative gas covered the entire area. The Fifth Squad fell one by one, unable to even see the attackers.
Gerard fell on his face, struggling for air.
Several silhouettes became visible through the gas. He lost consciousness as the shadows became visible: they were some enemy soldiers. And among them, a boy, armed, serious, looking at him on the ground with a frown.
And he wanted to speak, but all he could do was gasp.
“Nice day for a home invasion,” came a low, husky voice from near the boy. “How are you doing?”
“Who…?” he mumbled, practically gone from the gas.
“Scottie, who else?” he replied. He enjoyed the moment.
He heard his morbid giggle just before he succumbed to the gas.