Spec-Ops

VI.

0750. The briefing was in the tech mess. All the briefings took place there. DeJahn didn’t want to be late, slipped into the spot at the table beside Meralez. She didn’t look at him. He returned the favor by looking straight ahead.

Chihouly lumbered in, glanced at deJahn and Meralez, and gave deJahn a knowing headshake.

DeJahn shrugged.

0801. Major Delles stepped out into the small open space in front of the twenty techs. All stood and stiffened.

“Carry on.” Delles gestured for them to sit.

With the others, deJahn settled in, waiting to hear what Delles had to say. He wouldn’t like it.

Briefings meant trouble ahead.

Delles cleared his throat, then straightened his shoulders. His poopsuit had creases, and the gold oak leaves on the starched collars glistened.

DeJahn was just happy to have enough clean suits.

“Power is the key to any advanced technology. Even biotech and biowar require large amounts of power. In this sector, the Seasies are still relying heavily on old-style power plants. In particular, they have a large magnetodynamic coal plant, the Tanshu-two. This mission is to bring down the plant.

We’ll take out the cooling systems, then the security lines, and finish up with a double, an ultra-ex powered EMP and then red goo for the coal itself. The satellite team will be handling the biobirds for the EMP and goo. We get the dirty work first.”

A power plant? That sounded like the beginning of something, something deJahn wasn’t sure he’d care for. The only reason the Seasies hadn’t gotten rid of the old-style coal plants was that the costs were sunk. Spec-ops would be doing them a favor… unless a short-term power shortage happened to be necessary for some other reason. Like a sector-wide push in another few days.

He couldn’t help but turn toward Meralez.

They both nodded, but so slightly that the major didn’t notice, then returned their eyes to the presentation. The mess had darkened, to enhance the holo image of the target, a hulking industrial dinosaur that might have come from a hundred years earlier in NorAm.

“…water intakes are standard bioscrub… strike team three has already planted z-clambers… intake volumes are down fifteen percent…”

The major droned on, and deJahn managed to catch what he needed to know, and that was that most of the techs would be on late-disengagement. Another sure sign of trouble.

The last power plant image vanished, replaced by three lists. “Check for your assignments here.”

DeJahn checked. He had the main pod, but it didn’t say what he’d be handling.

“…any questions?” the major finally concluded.

“Why the late disengage, sir?”

DeJahn didn’t see the speaker; but it sounded like Chihouly.

“A number of the targets require higher-than-normal acquisition ratios, and that requires greater tech presence and persistence than can be obtained through late-stage free-ops.”

“Any other questions?”

No one spoke. There wasn’t any point to it, not after the major’s last answer.

“Duty stations will commence at 0900. Dismissed.”

The techs all rose, stiffened, and stood while the major departed.

That left thirty minutes to kill. DeJahn got some coffee. When he looked around for Meralez, she and Castaneda had left.

He sat back down.

Chihouly sat at the next table. Neither one said a word.

Finally, fifteen minutes later, deJahn got up and tossed the disposable mug into the reformulation bin and walked toward the pod.

Meralez was one of the first into the pod, after Vielho, and deJahn was right behind her. Suares followed deJahn. Esquival and Chihouly were behind him. The OpsCon was Captain DiLayne.

Narrow-faced former tech, she’d come up the long way and never forgotten.

He dropped into the third seat, and linked. Tech deJahn.

Accepted. Flash background: S-wasps. Five swarms, seeded minus three months, advanced growth, designed to inject superconductives into critical components, relays, and certain bloc units.

Power plant Tanshu-two. See plot.

Disorientation. Another mosaic view, with tiny lines everywhere, the result of compound eyes with enhanced resolution. All he could “see” were trees and an open field—no—what looked like a big flat pond, maybe an abandoned rice paddy, or a fish farm—the Seasies still preferred real-enviro food.

Because the view was so distance-short, deJahn checked the mental side view, noting the swarms’ progress from where the nests had been seeded weeks earlier. Another thirty minutes, according to the schedule.

Swarm one was flying ahead of schedule. A vague image of a black spider and a sticky web slowed them.

He checked the side-screens. The rest of the spec-ops vectors were well ahead. They should be.

Interrogative status? came from DiLayne.

On schedule. Green.

He had to keep a tight rein on the swarms, holding them back because the early units were slower than on the schedule.

Even so, the first S-wasps hit the sonic screens, flared into chitinous fragments. Minuscule needles pinged on his brain, and he created the image of sweet raw meat. Had to hold back the S-wasps until the scroaches and snators dealt with the guards and screens. Shouldn’t be that many screens around an old power plant, even one that generated some 600 megawatts.

Screens down. DiLayne’s reminder came after deJahn had already vectored his swarms toward the control centers.

From one composite image—swarm two—he could see/sense a handful of technicians in white singlesuits scrambling for cover, diving away from the S-wasps. A second image was a bank of equipment. He targeted the S-wasps into the vulnerable crevices there.

His whole body convulsed. A sonic net—internal—had wiped out swarm five.

His eyes burned, and the side-plot was getting faint.

Interrogative swarm status?

Operative units at sixty-one percent… fifty-seven percent… fifty-two…

There was no automatic disengagement under a late disengage.

…forty-nine…

Disengage! Disengage!

His whole body convulsed with the shock. Then, he could feel his lungs laboring in the darkness. He’d stopped breathing for a few moments. Close… too frigging close…

His breathing slowed. His poopsuit was soaked, his back stuck with sweat to the sensie-seat, and he stunk with fear-sweat as he eased off the mesh linkcap.

All he could do for a time was sit and breathe.

No one even looked in his direction in the dimness, even as bodies rushed past him. He shook his head and looked to his left. Suares lay limp in the sensie-chair—scarlet-flared. He wasn’t breathing. He wouldn’t, not ever, deJahn knew. Brain-fried.

Meralez was kneeling beside Vielho, but her words made no sense to deJahn. Vielho’s body kept twitching, and he screamed silently, as if his vocal cords had been ripped out of his throat.

A medtech appeared with a porta-gurney, moved around Meralez, and slapped a trankmask on Vielho. The medic never looked around as he strapped Vielho into the gurney, ignoring the other techs.

“Techs…” said the major from the ops station.

DeJahn knew what DiLayne meant. He stood, moved toward the pod exit, then touched the pad.

Tech deJahn… released, duty status green.

He followed Esquival out into the passageway. She didn’t look back. Neither did he.

Late disengagement.

Suicide mission.