Authors: G. T. Almasi
“Right now!” Trick shouts as his footsteps run out the front door.
Cyrus and I each leap out a window and jump off the porch roof. We land halfway across the front lawn. Cyrus drops to the ground and ends up flat on his stomach. I come down on my feet, but I’m immediately knocked off them as the home I’ve grown up in explodes with a shattering roar. I sail across the street and bash into my neighbor’s garage door. The little windows in
the door shatter and shower me with glass shards. Trick is there a few moments later, followed by a hailstorm of house chunks and everything they used to contain.
“Alix! I mean … Scarlet, are you all right?” It’s touching how concerned he is about me. Most people don’t have that kind of person in their life, so I consider myself lucky. He’s not supposed to call me Alix when we’re on a job, but he sometimes loses his composure when I go flying around.
“Yeah …” I wheeze. “Wind … knocked out of me.” I groan as I brush off dust and broken glass. I climb to my feet and stagger out to the street so I can watch what’s left of my house burn to the ground while I try to get my breath back. “Trick, you’re sure there was … nobody in there, right?”
“Absolutely. I checked infrared, spectral, aural, positronic—”
“Okay, okay, I got it. Good. Where was the bomb?”
Trick runs his hand through his hair. “Down in the basement, behind the furnace. I didn’t get a chance to examine it, but I heard a mechanical timer ticking.”
Cyrus walks around the burning pile of rubble and examines the smoking house bits. “The people who set this device would have given themselves time to get away, but not much more. We aren’t far behind them.” He walks over to the two of us and says, “The debris pattern is fairly broad, and the individual pieces are relatively small. I’d say this was about twenty ounces of RDX or maybe a pound of HMX.” He’s been on the job for so long that he can tell what kind of bomb it was simply by looking at the mess it leaves behind.
Cyrus comms back to HQ for some Tech Specialists to scan the area for intel about who did this and where they went. I turn away from the blazing wreckage only to see my family’s ruined possessions sprayed all over the neighborhood. Up and down the street my neighbors stand on their front lawns watching the show.
Until I was four years old we moved every six months
or so, but we’ve lived here for fifteen years now. Even when my dad died, Cleo and I still had the house. Now she’s missing, I’m homeless, and all my stuff just got blown to hell. My breath comes in little gulps, and my eyes can’t focus. I’m tempted to take some Kalmers, but I’m supposed to use my meds only when I’m in the field. Cyrus finishes delivering his directions and turns around to look at me. His eyebrows move apart, and he walks over and wraps one of his big arms around me. I lean into him, close my eyes, and cry into his shirt.
She’s fine, she’ll be fine
.
I stand in the circle of Cyrus’s arm. I decide that I’m in the field and tell my neuroinjector to give me a hit of Kalmers. The Tech Specialists arrive. Patrick takes them around the site before rejoining Cyrus and me.
The three of us drive back to HQ. Patrick zips upstairs to use Info’s jackframes, Cyrus heads for his office, and I clatter down to the armory to get heated up and meet with a group of Squad guys. I walk by rows of armored suits, all different shapes and sizes. The really enormous suits are exoskeletal robots used deep underwater or in other hazardous locations like erupting volcanoes.
I don’t need a primary gun or communication stuff, but I need everything else. I load up on ammo, grenades, and a full suit of SoftArmor. I keep a small mirror in my locker, and as I dress, I see that I’ve got dust all over my face and the bandage on my cheek needs to be replaced. On the wall behind me is a rack of mechanical devices that look like body parts. These are the neuroprosthetics for people who have had hunks of themselves blown off. Hands, feet, legs, arms—all the body’s parts except heads and chests. There’s even a lower torso kit that includes a full set of legs complete with pelvis. I try to imagine how someone who’d lost that much of her body could possibly survive long enough to have this huge prosthetic installed. Nothing pleasant comes to mind.
Trick comms in, “Scarlet, she’s okay. They’ve got your mom in an office park near Quantico.” Trick is the fastest
jackframe operator in the organization, which I appreciate now more than ever.
“Thanks, T,” I comm back.
He tells me, “We’ll find her, babe. Then you can give ’em the F.U.C.K.,” and comms off. Trick and I have a little in-joke about how many acronyms everybody uses at ExOps. One day at lunch he came up with Freaking Unstoppable Cranium Krusher, and I laughed soda out my nose.
I buckle on my SoftArmor, stop worrying about prosthetics, and listen to the
whop-whop
of the helicopters coming to pick us up. “We’ll find her all right,” I whisper to myself, “and once we do, craniums won’t be the only freaking things I crush.”
The Tech Specialists have analyzed a bunch of stuff from the abduction site formerly known as my house. God only knows what they found. I leave that technical crap to the eggheads. Whatever it was, they worked even more frantically than normal because Cleo is one of our people, and nobody fucks with ExOps’ people.
Our mission requires three helicopters: one gunship for air cover and two slicks to transport personnel. Each slick carries an eight-man Squad while the Mission Commander rides in the gunship. I get in Slick One with Cyrus, Patrick, and Alpha Squad.
As soon as we’re aboard the helicopters, I have Alpha Squad’s Med-Tech clean out the cut on my cheek and apply a new bandage. Patrick makes sure my SoftArmor is properly secured, then I recheck my ammo and grenades. Good to go.
While the choppers fly us to Quantico, Cyrus comms his boss to get me promoted from Level 4 to Level 6. He speaks out loud, so I can hear his end of the conversation.
“Yes, Director Chanez, I said Scarlet. Yes, that Level, the Interceptor from yesterday’s mission in New York. No, sir, she survived it with only a light bullet wound. I know, sir, but the abductee, Cleopatra Nico, is her mother.” Cyrus listens for a moment. “Right, Cleo from Admin. Sir, I want Scarlet on this Smash ’n’ Grab, but her clearance is too low to lead one of the Squads.” Long pause. “Director Chanez, may I … Yes, sir … Yes, but sir …” He shuts his eyes. “Sir, with all due respect,
if we don’t involve Scarlet in her own mother’s rescue, we’ll need a crew of Vindicators to keep her away from it.” Cyrus winks at me and continues. “Besides, sir, she fits the mission parameters perfectly, and there will be plenty of oversight.” Another pause. “Very good, sir. So I can file this promotion with your approval?” He listens for a long time. Trick, who has been eavesdropping, gives me a smile and two thumbs up. Finally Cyrus signs off with “Yes, sir, as you say. Thank you, sir.”
So I’m a Level 6, and Cyrus sternly lectures me about ExOps process and procedure. Like I give a shit about that right now. For all I know, my mom has been tortured or raped or killed. Show me the bad guys and I’ll give
them
some process and procedure.
The choppers hurtle in low and land outside a bucolic office park in Virginia, near the marine base at Quantico. We all jump out of the bird before it’s even on the ground. Cyrus and Trick run to the gunship and hop on as it lifts off again.
It turns out that the Mission Commander is Raj. He’s the last person I want to take orders from, but he’s available, he’s got the right clearance, and I’ve heard he’s effective in the field. When I ask Cyrus why he doesn’t lead this op himself, he says he wants to assess Raj’s leadership skills.
I’m about to tell my boss what I think of Raj’s leadership skills when Raj comms me from the gunship on my private frequency. “Scarlet, listen up, because I’m only gonna say this once. I don’t know how you sweet-talked the Front Desk into promoting you two Levels at once, but if you screw up my mission, I’ll have you demoted back down to Training.”
Before I can spit out one of my patented smart-ass responses, he switches to the Job Number’s group frequency and broadcasts his orders to the teams. Raj directs me to assault the main entrance of the facility with Alpha Squad while Beta Squad surrounds the rest of the
building. Rah-Rah will direct the operation from the heavily armed gunship helicopter.
I bring Alpha Squad to the north side of the office park. The guys gather around me and check their gear while I finalize some comm protocols with Patrick. This Squad is all business, no chatter or grab-assing. Squad members are highly trained but nonenhanced soldiers equipped with on-helmet radios that send and receive on the same frequencies as my commphone. Some of them are rejects from Camp A-Go-Go, but anyone who makes it into Initial Training automatically qualifies for Squad duty. Despite the rejection, or maybe because of it, Squaddies tend to have genuine respect for those of us who graduate as Levels. When they’re good to go, they radio their Squad number to me, followed by “ready.”
Once my guys finish checking in, I comm, “Raj, this is Scarlet. We’re prepped and ready to go.”
He comms back, “Roger, Scarlet. Proceed to the main entrance and enter the building.”
“Roger that.” I lead Alpha Squad up to the front door. There’s no point in subtlety. We arrived in fully loaded, nonstealthed helicopters. The baddies know we’re out here. My troopers lock and load their weapons, then assume a chevron formation behind me to cover our approach.
I comm, “Solomon, this is Scarlet, acknowledge.”
“Solomon ready.” This is Trick in the command helicopter.
Raj comms for the green light from Cyrus. “Almighty, this is Raj. Permission to proceed with Job Number AB-789.”
The comm-handle “Almighty” is reserved for the case officer who bears final responsibility for the job. Normally, the Front Desk doesn’t oversee missions directly, but Cyrus knows my mom personally, and he likes to stay connected to the fieldwork.
Cyrus replies to the whole team, “Almighty to Raj,
permission granted.” Then, only to me, “Give ’em hell, kiddo.”
“Roger that, boss. Hell will be a step up for these motherfuckers.”
I’ve had tons of training for this, but it’s my first large operation and my hands are shaking. I release more Kalmers into my bloodstream as I signal my demo guy to blow the north door. He hesitates and says, “Ma’am, we don’t even know if it’s locked.”
I glower at him, jab a finger toward the door, and cry, “Boom!” He scurries up to the door and squishes a blob of C-4 into the doorjamb. Obviously, this guy doesn’t understand the psychological aspect of this kind of work. I want these kidnapping assholes totally freaked out so they make all kinds of mistakes.
The demo guy gets the charge wired up, runs back to my position, kneels, and shouts, “Fire in the hole!” We duck our heads, the door blows up, and I charge into the smoke as chunks of door frame and wall land on the grass and front walkway. Alpha Squad crashes in behind me. Trick immediately feeds me directions.
“Scarlet, stay to the right of the security area … Turn down this hall … Take the second door on the right and go up the stairs.”
I open the door by blasting the doorknob with a giant slug from Li’l Bertha.
The .50-caliber bullet rips a grapefruit-size hole through the door and carries away the entire latching mechanism. This is part of our standard assault procedure. It’s in case the doors can be remotely secured behind you. When you’re on offense, you don’t want anything locked.
“Roger, Solomon.” I keep it short because I’m sure the baddies are monitoring our comm chatter. Under different circumstances I’d make all snuggly and stuff, but there’s not much point since the version of “snuggly” I’m bringing is the kind that results in broken bones and ruptured organs.
We advance to the top of the stairs. I pause to make sure everybody is right behind me. I comm to Trick, “Solomon, advise.” Again I keep it short. He knows where we are.
Trick comms back, “Vicinity clear, hard stop 200 left.”
I blast the doorknob off and rip the door open. Trick has told me that the area behind the door is clear but that there will be some competition two hundred feet to my left. I use hand signals to direct Squads 7 and 8, my two most junior troopers:
Hold here and cover our rear
. Then I take Squads 1 through 6 to the left.
“Solomon, do we have a fix on the subject?” I figure this is safe to comm since it’s such an obvious thing to ask.
“Affirmative, quantum vector 18 down.” Patrick and his codes. His cue is “quantum vector,” which tells me the actual position is the opposite of whatever he says. Mom is eighteen feet up, so two stories. This means we can fight heavy as long as we don’t demolish the whole structure. We pass a row of dark windows that look into a large, dimly lit conference room. I check Li’l Bertha’s sensors and see four targets around the corner. Trick is about to comm in, but I cut him off. It’s showtime.
“Squads 1 through 6, follow me!” I bang a Madrenaline boost and dash around the corner like a 110-pound demon. Four paramilitary guys are taking cover behind a row of big filing cabinets down the hall. They try to draw a bead on me, but I’m too fast and too small. I zigzag around their shots, waving Li’l Bertha back and forth like a scythe. She lays off the flammable stuff since we don’t want to burn the whole facility down. Instead she pukes out a swarm of large-caliber slugs. Her .50-cals punch through the cabinets and leave gaping holes in the guys hiding behind them.
Trick comms, “Scarlet, hold up!” I’ve already signaled Squads 5 and 6 to move forward and make sure it’s clear when the wall of the conference room disintegrates in a
roar. Squads 5, 4, and 2 go down immediately. The rest of my Squad hits the deck while I switch to infrared and dive through the crumbling wall, toward the ambush. It’s two guys on a crew-served machine-gun. It illuminates the room like a strobe light and makes an incredible racket. Squads 3 and 6 take damage while I bounce a grenade off the ceiling and into the machine gunner’s nest.