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1500. North Korea, Ching-Chai-Chong Province. April 7, 2037.
The breeze rustled the leaves and branches overhead. Birds sang and monkies screeched, but nobody saw the sniper, Sharkman. He'd gained the nickname from the most singly feared predator alive and it always made him feel a little foolish. I'm not a lone hunter. I work in a pack. Perhaps Wolf or Killer Whale would be better he thought. Oh well, too late.
Streched out prone in a small rush of bushes, he thought about the war and his partner as he peered through the ten power scope. In the northern forests of Korea, along the Chinese border the pair hid. But not in an obvious spot, such as the stand of trees on a hill overlooking everything. God, not like over there. What a bullet trap. But their current position still offered him and his sniper excellent cover. Unfortunately his sniper, his partner, had been wounded in the arm by a mine the previous day and could not carry out the mission. So they switched roles; the sniper "Hammer" took the SAW and GYROC and became point. Sharkman carried the .50cal BMG bolt action and laser. Now they were in position and taking shifts as they waited for the agent to name the target.
The agent was DJ Skinner. Sharkman had met DJ Skinner six years ago at the Ares International Espionage school. DJ had been both daring, unconventional and honest. Things Sharkman liked, and that were difficult to find in intelligence agents. DJ stood a full hands-width over six foot and wore his dark hair long enough to part down the middle. Like a frat boy! Shark thought as he looked through the scope again for any sign of the agent at the Mission.
Yup, a Mission. A Catholic Mission here along the border was harboring the enemy. Sharkman and Hammer had crawled for almost a mile to get within range of the Mission. Avoiding foot patrols at every turn, it had taken a full six hours. The patrols added evidence to the mission's intel provided by DJ. They had learned that the Mission was the site of a spotter that called in artillery on the Fire Base the Dragoons were at. It also harbored insurgent troops; thrice Ares boat crews had tailed the insurgents to this sector where they disappeared. Last, the Mission relayed to the insurgent's intel network when an Ares helo was outbound, which usually resulted in the loss of surprise. Their objective was to destroy the mole, the Mission, or both.
This whole war, technically a Limited Conflict, had started when North Korea invaded South Korea for the third time. This time they launched ballistic missiles at military targets in Japan. Atmospheric evidence showed that one of the ten shot down by Mitsubishi Anti-Ballistic Missile Defense Lasers were nuclear. After that it had gone much like the previous two wars. The North drove all the way south in a high speed blitz to the Pusan Perimiter, then the South and her Corporate Allies reversed the tide and stormed all the way to the Chinese border. Then the Red Chinese pour across the border to bring the war to a stalemate somewhere near the 38th parallel.
This time it was different, the Chinese hadn't poured over the border, but instead sent insurgents across the border into the new Republic of Korea (the North and South had united, militarily.) The Chinese mercenaries harrassed and tormented the Koreans left behind, along with hard line North Korean geurillas. What had resulted was almost ten months of Low-Intensity Conflict (LIC). That was good for the Dragoons, they got more experience. But it was bad for each individual; the steep hills and harsh weather were not a friendly mistress.
Clint Slatton, Corporate Solo, lay in the bush. Hammer subvoc'd him, "Spotted anything?"
Speaking subvocally he answered, "Not a damn thing."
Hammer was a kid from the Bronx with a physique like a tree trunk. He was also a superb sniper, whilst Clint was his Twin, the other man in a two man sniper team. Sometimes called a spotter, it was now Hammer's job to be pointman, guide, and guardian angel while the sniper focused on the mark and the kill zone. Again, due to Hammer's wound they had switched roles.
Jake, handle Hammer, resumed the dull task of observing everything around them in a slow methodical pattern that didn't let him get bored and assured he didn't miss anything. All around him the forest stirred, birds and insects chirped, contributing to the symphony of noise around him. Maybe when I get those ear mods I can filter this crap out. A veteran of several other "Limited Conflicts", Hammer made a good partner. He and Shark were of similar size; so either could carry the other out. Which could be difficult if one was a pip-squeak and the other a steroid-monger. Both communicated excellently and had no problem spending days alone togther. That made this part of the job, the waiting, easier.
1645.
"I'm on the mound. Slugger on deck. Batter up." DJ's voice ended as the line went dead. Shark looked away from the scope and over at Hammer. The big kid from the bronx just shrugged. DJ and Shark used a code based on baseball. Being on the mound meant being in position or in control of a situation. The slugger on deck, meant that the target, objective or whatever was near at hand. If he had said "in the dugout" or "in the showers" each would represent being further away, respectively. Then the batter up part, that means get ready. A good system, but not perfect by any means.
"Where's the mound?"
"By the goat herder. Use the shed post." DJ answered. Inside the mission there was a goat herder by a shed on the south side.
"Then lets make the Church Doors home plate."
"Copy that." The church doors faced east, which gave the ball diamond a 45 degree tilt. Shark and DJ would then use these landmarks to give reference and direction from. "Trouble in the home team dugout" and "Trouble in the bull pins" could mean two different things.
"Roger that. The crazy blonde fan with huge jugs is out in deep left field." This put Shark and Hammer due west of the Mission.
"Good to see those jugs."
"Will we be making one out, a whole innings worth, or rebuilding the Metrodome?" This was Shark's way to ask would one, some, or everyone be killed in the mission.
"We just need one out to put away the side."
"Copy."
1658.
"The Slugger is coming down the third base line. Headed for home." Translation: The mark was coming toward the church, heading due west toward Shark.
Shark scanned the courtyard for the target, there was just a Nun walking toward the church. Simple long dress, with a head thing on like nuns wear was all. No target there. Oh, shit! It is the nun.
1700.
Just then DJ dusted off the batter.
Sharkman watched astonished as DJ stepped up behind the Nun and quickly drew his sub-compact Miltech Mouse. The suppressed barrel barely stood out from the pistol grip. The .22 inch bore came to a stop just an inch from the back of her head. Then he pulled the trigger four times in rapid succession. The Nun's head exploded in a burst of bone and brain, the fine red mist hung in the air for a second as DJ looked towards Sharkman. "Homerun! It's over the fence," he said over the radio. Homerun was the signal for "Mission Accomplished". Where the homerun went was how he was signaling his exit route.
In the late afternoon sun and the lazy atmosphere as the sun sank towards the horizon the entire mission was slow to react to the shooting in their midst. DJ stole upon that legarthy and sprinted for the front gate.
At the gate, he grabbed the moped he had layed there and tore off down the road. Shark watched him, Hammer did too, partly watching for any rebels that would try to cut him off and partly thinking about what he had just done. DJ was deniable, Sharks .50 BMG was not. DJ had also shouldered the entire moral burden of killing a nun.
Part 2
0200. Western Siberia, Russia. June 9, 2041.
Shadows moved in the night. Ahead of them was a round walled complex, approximately one hundred yards in diameter. Completely made of ferrocrete, the wall in ten feet high, and it surrounds a central domed building approximately fifty feet on a side. A single large satellite sits atop the dome. Inside the circular wall, buildings are strewn about in a conjoining conglomeration of poor architectural engineering. The shadows know the layout though and it does not concern them. Nor does the ten foot wall; it has ten doorways around it. Each is guarded by a trio of guards, one is always insides.
Except on the south, south-east door. There, the inside guard likes to come out for a smoke with his two buddies. The shadows will exploit this weekness. The large shadow leads the flock forwards. Sweeping out, several shadows move to surround the building.
Chattering away in Chinese the third guard lights up his cigarette. The large shadow slowly points a dark object at the middle guard. A shadow on either side does likewise to a similarly positioned guard. The chattering chinese perhaps complain about the Mosquitos, which are bad this time of year, because that is all the gauss needlers feel like. Five seconds later, each has crumbled to the ground. The large graceful shadow, followed by a slower shadow move forwards with a group of shadows. At the door, shadows move to hide the guard bodies.
Spiriting their way inside and navigating the previously mentioned winding hallways the shadows move towards the center. The large shadow is fourth from the front and the slow shadow is actually just small, but manages to keep up the pace right behind the large shadow.
Any chinese, guards or otherwise, that are in the hallway the shadows are moving through recieve a full burst from the blacked out silinced SMG's the shadows carry. Caseless weapons don't leave clattering brass and the actions are specially silinced but eventually the sound of falling bodies and ruckass alerts the Chinese guards. Then the large shadow acts. He come to a halt (the small shadow right behind does likewise) and draws a Carbine from his back. Stepping out of line the shadows start to file past as he removes his mask.
Sharkman, points his visor at the small shadow, "So far my plan is perfect, but I don't see why we can't just direct a ArcLite raid at it, ortillery, or just shitloads of artillery." He slaps in a 100 round drum while he speaks.
"We've been through this, Command needs the intelligence, their accounting, and the figures." DJ kept talking but Shark quit listening. He knew the answer before he asked.
"Sure sure, whatever." Shark said waving his hand. Then he cycled the action on the Carbine, "Cry Havoc! and let slip the dogs of war!" he subvocallized.
Two seconds later, the three boat crews (21 men and women) assaulting the center building switched their main weapons. The suppressed SMGs went back on the belt, stealth no longer needed. Carbines with high-capacity drums, and auto-shotguns replaced them. Stealth was traded for shock value. The boat crews now expended their ammo at a rate that made them appear as if they were a company or two of normal infantry.
Fiber-board walls and cheap cinder block not slow their bullets measurably. A lead curtain of death was thrown out around them that extended up to three room away from them in all directions. Glass shattered, monitors exploded, desks and paper exploded all over, debris was thrown up and about, and bodies were reduced to heaps of meat.
The suddenness and fury of the attack multiplied its effectiveness beyond actual enemies reduced. In seconds the team was at the center building placing charges outside the door over the crumpled bodies of the guards.
"Charges in place," the Demo Tech said over the Tactical net.
"Roger. Pull fuse." Shark ordered as he and the rest of the team were in ready positions guards avenues of approach and the door itself.
"I have smoke."
"Affirm. Withdraw." He said aloud and waved his arm to move the door guards back ten or so feet.
There was a pop and then the thermal door charge flared an intense white. The thermal charges burned through the door, the wall, and part of the floor. Having extinguished themselves they were followed shortly by the door falling into the room and the large boom it produced. A brick of eight Dragoons rushed into the room without the aid of Concussion grenades, they would destroy intel.
The echo of gunfire and the noise it made hitting armor and bodies echoed into the hallway. Shark waited with the men outside in the knowledge that almost no one beat Ares entry teams, but each dealt with the sick feeling in their stomach that it had happened before and that was one of the most dangerous jobs on the teams.
"Nort Clear!" was shouted from inside. "South Clear!" followed close behind. "All Clear!" finally came.
"Three coming in!" Shark yelled in. He, DJ, and the CommTech entered and were greeted by a grisley scene. All eight Ares "Shockers" were upright and in good shape, and that is all Shark cared about.
The reduced boat team outside would fire occasionally, and the last boat team was still on a diversionary "Smash and Kill" mission to keep the base defenders ignorant of the missions objective. It was also sometimes refered to as the "Monkey Hate Cleam" team, as they broke things and generally made things not-clean.
"Ok, DJ grab that intel so we can make like a baby and head out."
DJ just shook his head at Shark's stupid sense of humor and whipped out three folded rucks to put the intel in. Two Dragoons helped and the CommTech begam taking out the hard drives of the computers. Once they were out he broadcast the "Tora, Tora, Tora" message to the Ares Dragoons waiting in their tanks, helo's and armored fighting vehicles.
The large shadow, Shark, stood feeling good about himself and his mission. This is what would become the final offensive of the war. Ares would suffer 20% losses, but in comparison with 50% Chinese losses they were light. Plus Ares won.
Part 3
1900. Burbs MSP. September 11, 2044.
There was nothing like a good beer and a warm woman to make retirement worthwile. And this time she wasn't half my age. I can't believe that the damn fixer tried to pimp out a fifteen year old to me. Maybe he won't do it again after he gets out of the TTI hospital due to twenty broken bones, eight missing teeth, and a ruptured spleen.
"Excuse me. Are you Sharkman."
I looked over the shoulder of the blonde with me at the bar. Two seats down on my right was a asian guy, early twenties in bad jeans, and an ugly leather jacket. He was just under average height, with the brown skin, dark hair, and brown eyes that is normal for an asian. Now, I'm not homosexual but I know an attractive man when I see one, and I'll even be so honest to say that this kid was way better looking than even me. He must have the ladies hanging off of him! But back to the kids question. "Sometimes," was my short reply. I just have a thing for telling everybody and their fifth cousin from Arkansas (or Redneckopolis) who I am.
"Do you know a DJ Skinner." The kid asked in perfect engrish.
"That depends. Is he in trouble with the law?"
"I can assure you he is not." Short pause. "I was wondering if you could identify a person in a photograph for me."
Then was when I decided to look around and see what was up. Did this kid come in alone? Was this a setup? "Slide the picture over on the bar." I said as I looked around. I had him slide it cuz you never know what contact poision someone might put on something. As I scanned the patrons in Felix's bar, LaCucaracha, nobody caught my eye, and no one was packing more heat than acceptable.
After two or three seconds of scanning the bar, and pushing the blonde away cuz this was business I got to me feet and looked at the picture. He would know I was looking at it cuz my visor dropped down to scan it. It was a millimeter wave emission image of DJ Skinner roped in to a chair on the first floor of a building.
Sometimes I am prone to overreaction. Now was one of those times. I started hyper-drive and was at the kids throat in a second. His throat was in my right had and the claws were extended on my left. They were behind his neck, and I knew from experience that this could remove the head of a normal man. "Who's got him?"
"He said you would have fast reflexes, but perhaps you should rethink your stance." There was a bit of anger in his voice and I bet he didn't like the fact that I got the drop on him. Any chink that groomed this much probably had a big ego and I just took a big shark bite out of it. I then felt the pressure of a firearm being applied to my abdomen. I angled my head down so I could see it. I recognized the characteristic frame and sight of a MilTech Mouse .22 cal suppressed holdout.
I just grinned the biggest, most evil, insane grin I could manage. The kid turned pale, so he must have got the message. That was I'd be eating his brains before that piddly little gun would hurt me. Either that or I don't mind getting shot. "Now you tell me what you know, or one of us starts dying."
1200. Rome, Italy. September 12, 2044.
Besides pain, and sex, my favorite thing is international travel. It's great, you get both. Uncomforatble seats in coach class on a cut-rate, bottom end, no-name Mexican airline that were designed by disgruntled chiropractors with the sole intention of destroying my back. And that's just the beginning. Customs, that's another. It's pretty damn hard to travel without a SIN. In fact, it's agony. Baggage claim is another, and the conversation with an old hag seated next to me makes it worse. About the only thing that could make this worth it is killing or sex. Similar when you get down to it, but mostly it's the sex. I love to travel to new countries, meet new women, and then have intimate relations with them.
Takasha as his name would be, is a good friend of my friend DJ. That's good, for him mostly, but me too. Now I know DJ is in trouble, and I get to kill the people responsible for his plight. Tak, as I call him for short, is an Ares Intelligence agent who is following in the footsteps of one of the best: DJ. He had been told by Basque Terrorists that DJ was being held for ransom and the return of five of their Basque commrades Ares had captured. Ares wasn't going to pay or trade anything. DJ's knowledge had already been made obselete and the cells he operated in had been redistributed. He was just a hostage now. That part pissed me off, but I respected their practicality. Many would be saved, even if DJ could not be.
But Ares also wasn't going to let one of their own rot. That would be bad for morale. That's why Takasha was here. That's why he'd brought me to this top floor room.
"Mr. Sharkman, the terrorists have two detonators. What is your plan for dealing with that?"
"What's your plan?" I asked as I opened the attache` case in front of me.
"I was going to defer to your experience Mr. Sharkman."
"Good plan, but assume I'm not here and not going by the Mr. part." I took out the suppressor and the barrel.
"First locate them, then kill them at the same time Sharkman."
"You read my mind kid. That's what I was going to do. DJ taught you good. But to be a bit more specific, I'll be up here in the press box, and you'll be down there in the square. You spot them, call the play, then we double team them." I clicked the barrel into the action and gave it half a turn until it locked in place.
"You mind running that by me in english?"
"What amatta? Me so solly, my engrish not zat good." I chuckled. "I'll be up here with the Ares Model 790. You'll be down there." I pointed to the courtyard. "You tell me where the mound is and where home plate are. Then we call out the positions of the two terrorists using this code DJ and I have been using for a while. Last, you kill one and I kill the other, just seconds apart so they can't detonate the charges that will be on DJ." I inserted the bolt and started to thread on the two point suppressor.
"What is zis code you speak of lound eye?"
I chuckled again. "It's pretty easy. Say you're by the orange vendor in the square. You'll call that home plate. Then lets say the water fountain in the center is the mound. Well from there, everything is relative. Those apartments there could be the press box; the guy over there with the kids would be about at first; and the hot italian chic should be on my lap, I mean, she's by the third base coach. Got it?"
"Yes I do."
1235. Rome, Italy. September 12, 2044.
DJ was in the square below. He strolled around, talked to the ladies, bought stuff from the street vendors and did the best possible job of blending in. He was supposed to deliver the briefcase with the cash in it and hand over a phone used to assure the Basque bastards their commrades were free.
I was in a second story window above a coffee shop and it's small trees with the Ares 790 briefcase suppressed sniper rifle. I had the smartsight on, and the bullet in the chamber. I was well back from the window and the shade was drawn closed except for about an inch or two. That was all I needed to see through, and standing back in the room set me up so I could change my kill zone easy and not be seen.
Smartsights on bolt-action rifles are a bit different. There is no "ammo saving" mode, and no sense in the "friend" mode either. Safety and mode selection don't really apply and neither does the "cycle action" feature. But what they do have more than make up for these features absence. First, a BDI (Bullet Drop Indicator) is tied into the laser cross-wind sensor and the laser range finder. Next, the point of impact can be adjusted mechanically by small servo motors mounted on the sight. The sights also incorporated a barrel warp sensor (but I wouldn't be shooting that much) and a ammo type adjustment system. Last, magnification is a mental function. All so I'd never have to take my hand off the gun. Isn't technology grand?
With me in position and Tak ready to go, it was just a waiting game now. These games are pretty easy, I have yet to loose one. In fact, once I waited for 48 hours in one spot in China on an ambush. I'd walked through a potential ambush zone to scout it when the enemy arrived. I was squating down by a bush and couldn't get out, nor could I start shooting. All the rest of the troops in the squad couldn't fire either for fear of hitting me. The bad guys decided to make camp there for two days. I squatted for so long that when they walked away, my legs had gone blue and cramped so bad I screamed when I tried to straighten them. So sitting up in this hotel room was cake.
1237.
"I'm down on the field, the infield looks ok. How's it from the press box?" Tak asked.
"Everythings fine. No sign of the other team though."
"Copy that. I'm at the mound and home plate is the coffee shop with the hot read head."
"I got you."
After that bit of crap was out of the way, I was ready to sit there all week, but my psyching up was not to be necessary because the brown VW van drove up that was supposed to be carrying DJ.
This wasn't exactly good because we hadn't found either two of the trigger men yet. If DJ got up to Tak and his escort found out that we didn't have the money, at least Tak would blown to bits by the twenty pounds of PLASTEX strapped to DJ.
Stars.
I frantically began searching the crowd in great detail (as opposed to the cursory detail I had been searching them with.) Sometimes skill pays off, other times it's luck. Times like this, I just don't know. But I found a big hairy Itallian fuck sitting at a outdoor cafe just down the street turn and look at the Van as it pulled up. He then reached in his pocket and got out a small brown unit and extended an antenna on it. What a bush league mistake. Sure it could be a pager, but I'd shoot him all the same. "Hey pitch, we've got one spotted way down the left field line."
"Roger." He was the pitcher cuz he was on the mound.
The van was coming to a stop and I was getting nervous. Still no sign of the other trigger man. As it came to a stop and DJ got out, my SPF meter pegged out. I layed the gun down on the big Italian guy and gave a call to Tak, "I've got this one, you better find the other." But I took my eyes out of the scope and kept searching the windows and roof tops.
"Will do." DJ had gotten out of the van and so had the guy in the passanger seat. Tak was to give them the money, they would remove the demolitions and then drive away quickly. The insurance being that if Ares tried to waste them driving off, the seconds could still detonate a very large charge.
Tak was looking around when the red head began to walk out from the Coffee shop. He must have noticed her thumb something because he lost control of all common sense and shouted, "Take the shot!"
There wasn't much I could do at that point except just that. I dropped my eye back behind the scope, set my cheek and head into my exact anvil point and leveled the cross hairs onto the dago's upper right cheek. The bullets exit path would remove the vital two inch section of his brain stem. That would end all motor reaction as well as reflexes, thus nullifying a dead-man trigger. I pulled the trigger with even pressure and hardly felt the gun recoil. The muzzle report was eliminated by the oversize silincer and the bullet left the barrel at less than the speed of sound and never broke the sound barrier. The heavy roundnose copper jacketed semi-wadcutter silicon tip lead bullet (non-spitzer) never destabalized thanks to the high thread pitch. It performed exactly as expected. His brain stem and neck were obliterated by the shot. He slumped to the ground, blood pooling around him.
The guys in the van were next. I swung around and before they knew what was happening, (the fat guy barely had time to fall at this point) I was shooting at them. I worked the bolt fast, thanks to the forward design and never took my eyes away from the scope, again thanks to the forward design. The driver got it first. One other nice things about these bullets is that they don't deflect well off of semi-hard surfaces like glass. The silicon tip coupled with the wadcutter design discourage deflections. So my first shot entered through the window and turned his vital organs in the center of his chest into a red stain in the back seat as the bullet passed through his body armor, his organs, his seat, and then deposited the sum into the back.
Another flick of the action and a black parkarized casing flipped out onto the hotel room floor. This time I leveled the cross hairs onto Mr. Walking-with-DJ. He got a clean shot through the brain stem as well. He ended up the same as the other two, no sense being repetative.
Now I had a chance to look things over. There was no explosion as I scanned over DJ, and then Tak, who was standing there shaking. I followed the direction of his gaze. Straight to the red head. She had three gaping holes in her pretty chest, and her light silk pattern dress was strewn out all around her. Her arms and legs were at not-normal angles and blood was running out onto the cobble stone street. DJ walked up to Tak and put his arm over his shoulder. The .380 MilTech Mouse will to nasty things to people with Enhanced Silicon Wadcutters.
Epilogue
Arabia, October 2044.
DJ is killed during this time. I was on a run in MSP and didn't hear about it until Tak approached me in Felix's bar some three months later. He said he delayed because of how we met last time. I guess I could understand his reluctance.
The Ares report says that DJ was taken prisoner in Lebanon and tortured to death for secrets he posessed. The Hezbolah terrorists, an Arabian Nationalist group, despise Ares and sought revenge as well as intel to plan their next anti-corporation raid. A british Royal Corporation agent in the vicinity at the time, who was later traded to freedom, said he heard terrible bowel loosening screams of the kind men make when bit by sharks for a better part of the night. That is the only account of his death.
I don't hate the Hezbolah for it. DJ knew the risks of the game. But if I meed them in a dark alley, I'll slot em.
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