Biowar

49

Malachi Reese steadied the Puff/1 as it came over the ridge, fighting a wave of turbulence. After steering satellite-launched “vessel” space planes and Mach 2-capable robot fighters, flying the prop-driven robot was like stepping into a Model T. The two-engined unmanned aerial vehicle looked like a three-quarter-sized OV-10 Bronco, with a fattened central fuselage. In place of a crew cabin, the body contained two GAU-12/U Equalizers, 25mm Gatling guns mounted in turrets that could swing approximately thirty degrees in any direction. Adapted from their original incarnation as podded weapons in AV-8B Harrier II jump-jet attack planes, the cannons could put a hundred or so armor-piercing rounds through the skin of a medium tank or armored personnel carrier in a little over ten seconds. Sitting between them was a double-bank of nineteen-inch rockets, unguided missiles that had high-explosive warheads.

While the weaponry was relatively low-tech, the aircraft itself was not. Its wings and surface area were covered with LED panels that could project real-time background images across the aircraft, so that in the middle of the day it might look like a collection of clouds passing overhead. The engines were powered by fuel cell technology; they were about 15 percent as loud as normal turboprops. The power plants could drive the aircraft 1,200 miles and back without stopping for a refuel.

But Malachi couldn’t get used to the slow speed. He had Feckboy jammin’ on the Mp3 player, but 300 knots was still 300 knots. The big screen in front of him plotted his position on a detailed topographical map; he could see the squad members who were carrying radios as well as Tommy Karr, the Desk Three op on the scene. A timer drained off in the right corner, showing how long it would be before Malachi was within weapons range. His console displays toggled between four video feeds; two were infrared capable.

“Stand by for site feed,” said Telach, over in the Art Room.

Malachi punched the function key and brought up the video, which was being supplied from a man-portable unmanned aerial vehicle known as a Kite. The small UAV was three miles from the guerrilla camp; the camp was a blurry gray-red image, jittering at top of the screen. The battle-analysis computer looked at the image and interpreted it, IDING the guard units.

“Hey, Malachi, what are we listening to today?” asked Karr over the sat com system.

“Feckboy,” he told the op.

“That thrash rock or metal rap?”

“In that direction.”

“You seein’ what I’m seeing?”

“Two guards on that perimeter,” said Malachi. “I’m on target in zero-five.”

“I have only one request: Don’t hit us.”

Malachi snorted. He nudged his joystick controller left slightly, positioning Puff for a swing that would take it to the northwest of the site. Firing from that direction would have the advantage of confusing the guerrillas about where the ground attack would come from. It also put a little more distance between Puff and the ground forces.

Malachi began his prebattle checklist: instruments in the green, fuel steady, guns armed and ready, Mp3 cranked at 8, two full bottles of Nestle’s strawberry drink on standby, straws inserted and ready to go.

“Ready when you are,” said Karr.

Malachi glanced up at the large screen, looking to see where everyone was. The NSA op had moved to within five yards of the sentry line; he was planning on running right past the position as soon as Puff took it out.

“Sixty seconds,” Malachi told him. “Careful where you’re going.”

Karr heard the light hum of the robot gunship about two seconds before it started to fire. The weapons didn’t carry tracer rounds — the sighting was all done with radar data — and so the rattle seemed to come from the earth itself. Dirt flew upward; Karr hunched down behind the tree a few yards from the guard post, confident that Malachi would hit exactly what he was aiming at and nothing else.

The GAU-12 spat about a hundred rounds through the heavy-gun position, then moved on; Karr got up and started running through the guerrilla camp’s perimeter, making a beeline for the pair of huts a hundred yards away. Puff/1, meanwhile, blasted away at the heavier emplacements on the northwest.

The guerrillas began returning fire, their green tracer rounds streaking haphazardly upward. Sourin and two of his men were now a few yards behind the NSA op.

Something moved on Karr’s left. He threw himself on the ground; an automatic rifle popped behind him, taking down the guerrilla.

By the time the big American had hauled himself back to his feet, the Thai Army squad had already breached the defenses and was just about at the buildings. They were firing at them, though it wasn’t clear whether they had targets or not.

“Whoa, guys, whoa!” shouted Karr. “Major Sourin — Major. Hold on. We want the people inside there alive, remember?”

Sourin shouted something back at him but was drowned out by a fresh splatter of cannon from Puff. Karr jumped into a shallow revetment behind the two buildings; Sourin was a few feet away, emptying his rifle at the building.

“Damn it, we want the people in the buildings alive if we can do it,” said Karr, clamping his hand on the officer’s shoulder.

“You want them alive,” said Sourin, but he stopped firing and shouted at his men to hold their fire.

“Tommy, two men are running to the northwest toward team delta,” said Chafetz.

Karr alerted Gidrey, who was with the team there.

“We have prisoners,” said Foster over the radio. He was with the team sweeping in from the southwest corner.

“Good,” said Karr.

The Thai major said something in Thai that didn’t sound particularly respectful, but Karr chose to ignore it. He pushed forward against the edge of the ditch, holding his glasses as he scanned the buildings.

“All your posts are neutralized,” said Malachi. “Heavy weapons are down.”

“Can you tell me what’s inside that building in front of me?”

“Coming over it now. Two — five people. Weapons.”

“Beam me the image.” Karr took out his handheld, staring at it as the image downloaded. He showed Sourin the handheld computer with its frozen-frame image. “Tell them to surrender.”

“They won’t,” said the major.

“Well, convince them to.”

The Thai commander started speaking rapidly in his native language.

“Chafetz, you getting this?” Karr asked.

“Doesn’t want to take prisoners, basically.”

“Look, Major, we play by my rules,” Karr told him in English. “I need these guys alive. You got it?”

Sourin made the mistake of moving his gun toward the op.

“Mal, bracket us,” said Karr.

“Uh—”

“Now, Mal,” said Karr. He looked into Sourin’s face. “Look, Major, I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your men. But—”

Malachi finished the sentence for him, peppering the ground around them. To his credit the major didn’t flinch.

Much.

“Get my point?” asked Karr.

Sourin frowned but then told him in Thai that he could go ahead and approach the buildings.

Chafetz supplied the translation.

“He’s not happy,” added the runner.

“Neither am I,” said Karr. He slid off the backpack with the extra ammo and climbed up out of the ditch.

The Thai officer yelled something to him, but Karr ignored it, jumping to his feet and running ahead. The A-2’s laser dot danced near the window of the hut as he ran, but no one appeared in the opening. About ten feet from the back of the building he threw himself into the dirt. Foster flopped in the dust right behind him.

“Where are you going?” Karr asked.

“Coverin’ your ass.”

Tommy got up to one knee and sidled to the side of the building. “You watching them for me, Sandy?”

“No one’s moved.”

“They dead?”

“Not sure. One was definitely hit, and another looks out of it.”

“Is our guy in there or what?”

“The profiles are obscured and we can’t be sure.”

Karr reached into his pocket and pulled out the handheld computer. Four of the five men were huddled against the opposite wall, but one guerrilla was about three feet away from him, just on the other side of the wall near the opening.

“Give me the Burmese words for surrender,” Karr told Sandy as he slid a grenade from his pocket.

Foster pointed his M4 rifle toward the window; there was no door on this side of the building.

The translator came on the line with the phrase, which sounded like “cul-osh-dik” repeated twice.

Karr tapped Foster’s arm. “Don’t breathe. It’s one of the gas grenades,” he told him as he reached up and dropped the grenade through the open window. “Take about ten, twenty seconds to wipe them out.”

“Cul-osh-dik, cul-osh-dik,” tried Karr.

The grenade exploded. Foster started to jump up, but Karr grabbed him.

“No. Hang on.”

“They’re still not moving,” said Sandy. “Okay, one just fell over. They’re out of it.”

“Let’s get the other building and then come back,” Karr told Foster.

“Two men. They’re pointing their weapons in the other direction,” said Chafetz as they ran toward it. “Not going to be your target.” The computer had compared the profiles it saw on the infrared camera and decided neither man was big enough to be Kegan.

“Gotcha.” Karr turned to the Marine. “Flash-bang? I go through the door.”

Foster nodded. He took a grenade and dropped it through the window.

“They’re moving,” said Chafetz just as it exploded.

In the same instant, Karr leaped through the nearby door, his shoulder muscling the flimsy panel aside. The A-2 roared and the two guerrillas sprawled back on the ground.

Karr took a long, slow breath, the tension draining away now that the guerrilla camp was secured. He and Foster checked the hut. Back outside, Karr pulled a lightweight respirator and mask from the large flap pocket on his thigh. The gas should have cleared out of the first hut by now — it was a fast-acting Demerol derivative cooked up specially by the Deep Black chemists — but there was no sense taking chances.

“That little gun is pretty damn loud,” said Foster, pointing at the A-2.

“Yeah,” said Karr. “I think it really works by scaring the shit out of people.”

He smiled, then, with the mask on and gun ready, went to inspect the other hut.