Queen of wands

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Your little firefight woke up the neighbors. We’re already getting queries from CNN, and it’s the middle of the night. The Director is not going to be a happy camper tomorrow.”

Assistant Deputy Director George Grosskopf was, for his sins, the FBI official in charge of managing Special Circumstances. What he was currently trying to figure out was how to manage the cover-up on this one.

“This may be too big for a cover-up, alas,” Germaine said over the videoconference. “And please note that the Great Powers are in agreement on maintaining confidentiality. It is possible that They may intervene to prevent a widening hysteria. But we cannot depend upon that. Their ways are ineffable.”

“Seismic sounding,” Janea said. “I just thought of it on the way over to the trailer. There’s a kind of seismic sounding system that uses a series of explosions, sonic something or another. Trot out a geologist to spin it as a way to map the cave system.”

“We need to clear this whole area,” Barb said. “There are probably more of these things. And what’s the word on our caving team?”

“The military has found a few personnel who are able. And willing to keep quiet about it,” ADD Grosskopf said. “They’re also bringing special weaponry. Refresh me on the thing with the rounds. The rifle didn’t work as well as a pistol? That sounds backwards.”

“Well, sir, the M-4’s not a real killer, sir,” Randell said. “Never has been.”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Barb said. “And I have a theory. But that’s all it is.”

“Go,” the ADD said.

“These things are mostly a mass of tentacles with a very small body,” Barb said. “And they regenerate like mad. Even if you hit the body, you don’t kill them unless you break it up. And the same goes for the tentacles. You have to do a lot of damage. High velocity rounds kill and wound primarily through hydrostatic shock. These things don’t respond at all to hydrostatic shock. You have to really chop them up. The sword actually worked better than my pistol, you just have to get way too close for comfort. Bottom line is, the bigger the round, the better. Coupled with the more rounds you can put on target, the better. I’d suggest that the SF bring a really good forty-five SMG with them.”

“I’ll pass that on,” Grosskopf said. “The only one that comes to mind is a Thompson. There are some newer ones but most of them aren’t all that great.”

“I’d hate to have to work a Thompson through the caves,” Barb said with a sigh. “But if that’s what we have to work with, that’s what we’ll have to work with. God’s ways are, as Augustus said, ineffable.”

“Any thoughts on something that will allow us to clear the entire area and not be worse news, or as bad as, an invasion of demonic entities?” the ADD asked. “So far we’ve floated a meteor strike, radioactive release, and a spill of poison gas that was on its way to be destroyed. None of them are considered politically palatable enough. The Powers That Be would rather tell the truth than any of the above.”

“Yeah,” Janea said, nodding thoughtfully. “And it would kill several birds with one stone. You’re going to need some briefed-in experts who are willing to lie their asses off, and create a bunch of false data, but it just might work.”

“This is CNN in Goin, Tennessee, where the federal government has just announced a major threat to not only the local area but the entire region…”

“Methane gas?” Barb said incredulously, rubbing her hair with a towel.

“Hey, it worked,” Janea said, yawning. It was just after dawn, and that afternoon they were headed back into the caves to try to find the lair of the Gar. They were going to need sleep. “Methane gas builds up underground all the time. All it needs is one spark, and boom! There’ve been four instances of major methane explosions in known geological history. The geology is totally wrong for it in this area, and there’s no way that it would affect as large an area as they’re clearing. But it gave us a reason to get civilians out of danger, a reason for Professor Argyll’s death, and people are buying the bogus seismic charges story, so we don’t have to explain a major firefight in a sleepy neighborhood. The neighbors are now complaining about not being warned about the charges and being awakened in the middle of the night instead of insisting it was a firefight. You know people are buying it when they’re complaining about the wrong things. I deserve a pat on the back.”

“I’m starting to think you’ve got the wrong goddess,” Barb said, crawling gratefully into bed. “Ever considered Athena? No, not devious enough. Hera?”

“Bite your tongue,” Janea said, putting her hands behind her head. “Like I want to be the spider in the web. Give me someone who wars with gusto and lusts with passion. I spent a little time with a cult of Ishtar when I first got into paganism, but it was too ‘love is the answer.’ Love’s great right up until someone needs their ass seriously kicked. You might as well be Buddhist as Astara.” She paused for a moment then grimaced. “I don’t want to go to sleep.”

“Me neither,” Barb admitted. “I’m glad to be horizontal, but I don’t want to sleep.”

“Nightmares,” Janea said. It wasn’t a question.

“Worst I’ve ever had,” Barb said. “I woke up probably twenty times last night, same damned nightmare every time.”

“Want to talk about it?” Janea asked.

“Not on your life,” Barb said. “I just want to forget them. I’ve never been particularly submissive.”

“Held in place by an amorphous form?” Janea asked, frowning.

“In a dark place?” Barb said, sitting up.

“Skip the rest,” Janea said, sitting up in turn. “Recurrently?”

“All the time,” Barb said. “I had one intervention, I think, by a messenger. But other than that, every time I woke up it was from the same dream.”

“That’s not a dream, that’s a projection,” Janea said. “Do you feel…a longing?”

“Repulsed and pulled at the same time,” Barb said, nodding. “Like wanting a chocolate but knowing it’s got acid filling.”

“Any particular direction?” Janea asked.

“No, just the pull,” Barb said.

“Look, I don’t want to go through those dreams, either,” Janea said, pulling her legs up and wrapping her arms around them. “But if, when, we do, we need to see if we can get any impression of the location. If these are astral projections, we may be able to get a feel for where we are. It’s a clue and we’re currently clueless.”

“Not looking forward to that,” Barb said, lying back down. “But it’s a start.”

“The things I do for this job,” Janea said, still sitting up. She didn’t look ready to try her own idea yet.

“God never makes a Gifted life easy,” Barb said. “Get some sleep. We’re going to need it.”

“Ladies,” Randell said as Barb and Janea entered the briefing room. For once he wasn’t wearing a suit. He was in cargo shorts and a polo shirt instead.

Things had built up since the beginning of the investigation. The FBI had brought in a complete forward command center, a series of temporary trailers, instead of schlepping in a motel. Barb would have preferred the motel, but it turned out some of them were rigged as shield rooms. Since the real nature of the threat was being kept even from the vast majority of the responding units, keeping its nature secret in the command post area was going to be tough.

“We nearly couldn’t get in here,” Barb said. “There were a half a dozen checkpoints on the way in. Not to mention the rent-a-cops guarding the command center.”

“That is what credentials are for,” Randell said. “Okay, your new team. Master Sergeant Scott Attie of Fifth Special Forces group.”

“Ladies,” Attie said, looking at them with curiosity.

“The Master Sergeant has combat experience and has been a caving exploration leader. Sergeant Jordan Struletz,” Randell continued, pointing to a tall, slender blond guy wearing thick glasses. He was looking more than a touch anxious. “Sergeant Struletz is from 319th MI group. He has some combat experience and has done extensive civilian caving.”

“Ladies,” Struletz said, swallowing nervously.

“Just two?” Janea asked. “We had twenty last night and we nearly got our heads handed to us.”

“Three,” Randell said. “Me. I’ve worked in confined spaces and I’m not claustrophobic. I’ve also seen the threat. And I’m not insane.”

“Thank FLIRs and the Hand of God for that,” Barb said.

“FLIRs certainly,” Randell said.

“Master Sergeant,” Barb said, ignoring the implied jibe. “I’ve got some questions that are going to sound very strange. Especially since this is an official mission.”

“If I can anticipate some?” Attie said. “I was briefed on Special Circumstances and the threat. One of the reasons that there’s only two of us is that most people turned the job down when it was an unspecified ‘high risk of loss of life.’ Most of us have been in enough situations where we’re more than willing to turn something like that down. Others weren’t willing to believe the in-brief on SC, while being more than willing to never mention it. I think that most of them thought it was just a test, anyway. I am not a believer, as you would term it. This has got me thinking, but that’s not the same thing.”

“Not at all,” Barb said, nodding. “Last thing. How’s your mental stability?”

“Fair,” Attie said. “I’ve seen and done some things that bother me, but I’m one of those people that it doesn’t bother so much.” He shrugged. “When it’s your time, it’s your time. Monsters, bullets or IEDs, doesn’t really matter. You’re gone and that’s the end of the ride.”

“People like myself consider it a beginning,” Barb said, turning to the sergeant. “Sergeant, frankly, I’m considering just cutting you. You look too nervous already and when we get in the caves we can’t afford that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Struletz said. “I can understand that. Ma’am, understand that I was unsure about accepting the briefing on SC. But when I was briefed, ma’am, I realized it was a necessity for me to volunteer. I am a believer, ma’am, Catholic, if you don’t mind. I’m a member of the Society of Saint Michael, ma’am. To avoid combat with true evil would be, in my eyes, a sin. Am I afraid of dying, ma’am? Yes. But my soul is the Lord’s, ma’am. I go to His arms unafraid.”

Randell snorted and shook his head.

“Problems with that, Agent Randell?” Barb asked.

“No, ma’am,” the agent said. “If he wants to put his trust in God, go for it. I’m going to put my trust in a good weapon.”

“On that note,” Barb said, looking at the Master Sergeant. “I asked for military-grade weapons.”

“And we brought a good array,” the Master Sergeant said, nodding. “I was given leave to draw on anything in the SOCOM inventory. But most of it’s not going to be useable in the caves. Very closed space, very close-quarters battle, ma’am.”

“There goes the rocket launcher,” Janea said, sighing.

“Yes, ma’am,” the Master Sergeant said, looking at her dubiously.

“That was a joke, Master Sergeant,” Barb said. “We’re both familiar with firearms. I’m better with them than Janea, but she’s not bad.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Attie said, reaching down and putting a bag on the table. “When I was given this mission, and the mission to prepare the gear, I had to think hard about it. I’d planned on MP-5s…”

“They’re not all that good with these things,” Randell said. “Five point five six is worse.”

“And then I got that intel in the middle of the night,” Attie said dyspeptically. “Which threw a wrench in the works. The optimum was a forty-five-caliber SMG that was small, light and robust. Unfortunately, the state of the art is still the Thompson in forty-five. The problem with forty-five is recoil and muzzle climb. The traditional way to deal with that has been weight. The weight of a Thompson is, looked at that way, a feature, not a bug. And they’re tough as hell.”

“Tell me they’ve at least been reworked,” Barb said with a sigh. “The last Thompson I fired was practically mint in that nobody had ever changed anything on it. Which meant it was a piece of…it was not a very good weapon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Attie said, smiling slightly. “But then I got to thinking. SOCOM has been evaluating a new forty-five SMG. It’s barely out of the prototype stage but it’s been passing every test with flying colors.”

He opened up the bag and drew out a small-very small-submachine gun.

The distance from the rear of the weapon to the barrel was barely fourteen inches. The extended magazine was nearly as long as the weapon. And it was very close to a square, as opposed to the longer, more tapered style of weapons. Instead of a trigger guard, there was a full hand guard around the trigger area, and a pistol forestock. Forward of the trigger/hand guard was a large boxy area that Barb couldn’t figure out. And the barrel actually extended directly from where the middle of a person’s trigger hand would be instead of being above it. That meant the chamber was in front of the operator’s hand, which was a bit nervous-making.

Barb’s initial reaction was one of disdain. The majority of the weapon’s body was polymer, and she had never seen a polymer weapon that worked. And every time she’d seen the “newest thing,” it had turned out to be an old thing in new, and usually less capable, packaging. And small SMGs generally shot very poorly. Trying to control the recoil was just impossible in anything that small. She’d shot a Czech Skorpion, one of the most popular “cool” guns in movie and TV “action” shows, and keeping it in the area of a human silhouette, much less any sort of actual accuracy, was nearly impossible. She didn’t think this weapon could be much better.

“And that is?” Barb asked.

“The TDI Kriss Super V,” Attie said, dropping the magazine and ensuring it was clear, then handing it over to Barb. “It’s a forty-five SMG that uses a style of recoil damper that drops the muzzle climb and recoil. It’s also got fewer parts than a standard SMG, so it’s reliable as hell.”

“Sounds nice,” Barb said, doubtfully. “Sounds like you work for their PR department.”

“Which was my reaction when I first played with one,” Attie said, nodding. “Thing is, they’re right. Little fucker…”

“Language, Master Sergeant,” Barb said.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Attie said, rolling his eyes. “Little sucker shoots like a rail, ma’am. Full auto or single shot. The only problem is getting used to it ’cause it feels unnatural to shoot. There’s recoil, but just enough you can tell you’ve fired. And you keep wanting to fight the muzzle climb and it’s not there.”

“How?” Barb asked, interested.

“Basically, the bolt hits a metal buffer that goes down instead of back,” Attie said, shrugging. “That shifts the momentum of the recoil and automatically fights the muzzle climb for you. Takes a couple of magazines to get used to it. After that, well, it’s kind of like what you’d think a laser would feel like firing. I mean, there’s some recoil, but nothing you have to fight. You can shoot it offhand, easy. And you can’t say that about any other SMG on the market in any caliber.”

“Hmmm,” Barb said, ensuring the weapon was clear then targeting with it. She had to admit it was a very smooth -feeling weapon. Except that it just felt too damned small. Which in a cave was, again, a feature, not a bug. Unless you wanted to hit your target. “Reliability?”

“Would you like the results of the official test or the unofficial test?” Attie asked, grinning.

“Unofficial?” Barb asked.

“AWG has its own testing regime,” Attie said.

“AWG?” Janea interjected.

“Asymmetric Warfare Group,” Attie replied. “Don’t ask. Just say they need weapons that work. They’ve got their own testing regime. First, they dunk a weapon in mud for three months.”

“Ouch,” Barb said.

“Yep,” Attie said, grinning. “Then they clear out the barrel and fire four thousand rounds through it. If it doesn’t break completely, they’re happy. The standard is that it has to successfully fire the first hundred rounds without detail cleaning. After that, it can only be detail cleaned. If it has to be repaired, it’s a fail.”

“The AK test,” Barb said.

“Right,” Attie said. “Then there’s the dust test. Dust and mud do two different things. So they put it through a three-day simulated dust storm. Same standard. Then they fire eight thousand more rounds through it. The weapon can’t break during the final fire run.”

“And the AWG test?” Barb asked.

“They never detail cleaned it,” Attie said, smiling. “They only detail clean if there’s indications that it’s necessary due to repetitive jams. They had a total of eighty-seven jams in the whole test series, ten thousand rounds. An M-4, by comparison, has an average of one hundred and eighty jams and requires frequent detail cleaning. The only other weapon that makes the same standard is the AK, and it’s a piece of…” He paused and looked at Barb. “It’s robust, but not very good otherwise. This is robust, mostly because it’s got very few moving parts, and one he…heck of a weapon. The Kriss is the shi…It’s the best weapon to come along since the Ma Deuce.”

“You’re gun-geeking out on me, Barb,” Janea said.

“Military fifty-caliber machine gun,” Barb said, looking at the weapon in a different light. “Okay, I’m still taking my H amp;K, but this sounds like the right system for the mission. What else?”

“I was worried about bouncers,” Attie said.

“We’re not going to a bar,” Janea said, frowning.

“Ricochets,” Barb said.

“Right,” Attie said, smiling. “So it’s frangible ammo. My only question is if it’s got the penetration for the threat. So we’ll mostly carry frangible with ball backup.”

“Okay,” Barb said. “Can we use anything heavier in there?”

“Caves aren’t mines, ma’am,” Attie said, dubiously. “You don’t want to use much in the way of explosives. Cave-ins happen.”

“I’d really like to avoid that,” Janea said.

“So we’ll be carrying some frags,” the master sergeant said with a shrug. “I don’t recommend using them under normal conditions; they’ll bounce all over the damned place. But if we have to use them, we’ll use them. Other than that, standard caving gear. I’ve got combat harnesses for your stuff. We’ll have to be taking them on and off…”

“And thus we get to what a lovely adventure this is going to be,” Janea said. “Are we done gun geeking? Can I wake up now?”

“Just one thing,” Barb said.

“Got to have some range time with it, ma’am,” Attie said.

“Oh, great,” Janea said. “Can’t I just use an axe like normal?”

The FBI Command Center had come rather completely stocked, including basic materials for a range. So it had been a matter of less than twenty minutes to get in place and get ready to test out the new weapons.

The Kriss had a folding stock, which Janea had dutifully folded out and tucked into her shoulder. She took a good two-point stance, leaned into the weapon and prepared to fire.

“Ma’am?” Attie said, cautiously. “They say to always let people fire the weapon the first time their normal way. But you’re leaning way too far into it.”

“I’ve fired an SMG before, Master Sergeant,” Janea said.

“As you say, ma’am,” the master sergeant said. “Fire when ready.”

Janea shook her head, leaned into the recoil and lightly stroked the trigger. And nearly fell on her face as the bullets drew a line from the middle of the silhouette halfway to her position. On the ground. She’d tried to fight recoil that just wasn’t there and ended up barely missing shooting her foot.

“What the Hel?” Janea said, holding the weapon out and up, her eyes wide. “There’s no recoil.”

“There’s not much, ma’am,” Attie said, grinning. “Especially when you consider it’s forty-five. Thompson kicks like a freaking mule, even with all the weight.”

“That was just…” Janea said, her eyes still wide.

“Unnatural?” Attie asked.

“Good word for it,” Janea said, taking another stance. This time she didn’t bother to lean in, and triggered another burst. All five rounds ended up in an eight-inch pie-shaped area. Normally, one or two would have been in the circle and the rest climbing up and away. “This is…”

“The stuff?” Barb asked, taking a stance next to her. Barb didn’t make the same mistake, which was why her first five rounds all ended up in the target zone. Her next five ended up in a three-inch group. Then she simply held down the trigger, expending the rest of the thirty-round magazine into a five-inch circle. “That is very nice.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the master sergeant said, blinking in surprise. His own shooting was on the same order, maybe a touch better, but he didn’t expect to see that level of ability in a civilian female. He didn’t expect to see that much expertise in most SWAT members.

Barb put in another magazine, flipped the folding stock down, then fired with one hand on the pistol grip and the other on the forestock grip. Firing that way, she put five rounds into a five-inch circle. She tried a modified two-handed grip using just the pistol grip. That wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it was possible. She managed to put the next series in the same five-inch circle. One-handed, she put them into eight inches. Then she switched to left and did a bit better.

She heard a snort next to her and looked over at Janea. Who was, in turn, looking at the master sergeant. Who was standing open-mouthed and staring.

“There’s a reason I call her Soccer-Momasaurus,” Janea said, laughing.

“It’s Mrs. Everette, right?” Sergeant Major Attie asked with a tone of slight disappointment.

“Yes, Master Sergeant,” Barb said, shaking her head. “And I note you’re wearing a wedding ring.”

“I’ll go Muslim.”