Sergeant SG1-15-FS, the leader of field squadron 15-FS, had new orders. They were to engage at will. In his own judgement, the Captain’s orders had not made much sense from the beginning. They had never been on surveillance missions, life at the border was simple: They either killed them or captured them, but all this herding of fugitives was just too much fuss. Now that the order finally came, they could go about their usual business. Pulling the trigger was the easiest solution, no questions, no captures, no need to be careful not to damage the goods. He had never questioned what they did with those he delivered, but he had his ideas. Anyway, this was none of his concern, especially not now. It would be a simple day; they’d shoot ‘em and they would be excused for the rest of the morning. After a long night like that, all he needed was something strong to drink and a good day’s sleep.
He watched the pair run up towards them farther along the path. The Captain was at his usual game, expecting them to have the route map after the safe house, or so it seemed. Eventually it had turned into a routine operation, only it was daytime now, which should make things even easier. The Captain no longer insisted upon the old radios, so they could use the proper communicators with the encrypted channels, which was so much faster and so much more efficient. He turned on his own now.
“Command, this is Sergeant-1-15-FS. I am on station and I have visual contact.”
“SG1-15-FS, this is Command. Acknowledged.”
“Awaiting orders, Captain.”
“Hold your position, Sergeant. Aerial engagement is expected at any moment. Stay out of the line of fire, you will be cleaning up the mess. Command out.”
He put his communicator back into its shoulder holster. That was great! Bloody mess a drone can make! Those machine guns would tear the bodies to pieces. And who else, but him and his men, to make sure the mess does not stick. He felt like a bloody janitor. He looked at his boys. They all heard the orders, and none of them seemed too happy about it. He wanted to say something encouraging, but thought better of it. They would know he was bullshitting.
***
Jumaane was running right behind the white man now. At last they were of the same mind. They both knew the path was safe, and they ran as fast as they could. At the end of that path was safety, so the old lady had said. They must be near now! Freedom was in the air, he could smell it. They would make it, there was still hope! Then he noticed the same whizzing sound he had heard before. He would have paid no attention to it, but the man before him turned, his expression filled with horror. He grabbed Jumaane and hurled him between the trees, following right after with a leap.
The next moment the trees exploded around them. Sharp splinters flew everywhere and trees fell, one by one. He was dragged by the white man towards what looked like a small hill. Jumaane could not imagine why he wanted to go up there, but had no better idea himself.
The white then man turned and jumped up, grabbing the lowest branch of a tree, and pulled himself up. What is he doing? Whatever chases us can cut down trees like grass! He watched in bewilderment as the man climbed higher then took out his gun and waited.
Jumaane followed his gaze and saw a flying machine, much like a helicopter, only with four engines. It had a small body with a big bulb in front, inside of which something was moving frantically. Underneath, there were the biggest machine guns he had ever seen in his life. And the guns pointed right at him.
“Are you crazy? You want to shoot that?”
He started to shake the tree, but it was too thick.
“Get down, we have to run!”
But the white man was up there with a determined face, pointing his small gun at the weird helicopter. The machine guns coughed up again, and at the same time the white man began firing bullets. Jumaane threw himself behind the tree and onto the ground.
***
The machine gun continued to fire, but its aim seemed to have been lost. Alex felt a deep thrill and satisfaction. He did it! He never thought he would. He had never used a gun in a stressful situation before. At the firing range it was always quiet and easy, but his aim was agreeable even now. Out of the nine rounds he had fired, at least one had hit the drone’s camera. He was about to jump when the tree came crashing down, taking him with it.
The African was lying on the ground, shouting something. Alex pulled him up and dragged him behind a group of trees that were still intact. Alex pointed up at the drone that was now firing aimlessly, then at his own eyes. Then he made a gesture of shooting with his hands. He could not think of a better way to explain that the drone was now blind. He had shot its eye out. It was still dangerous, but at least they had gained a slim advantage.
Still crouching, he started to crawl back towards the footpath. It was the only safe way he knew and he was determined to continue on it, whatever would happen. At least the drone would not bother them now.
***
“Command, this is OP-20D,” said the drone operator into his mouthpiece.
“Come in operator.”
“Captain, I have lost vital systems of the craft.”
“Explain!”
“I have lost the aiming mechanism and the night vision camera got damaged. The subject fired at it.”
“Fired? With what?” The Captain’s voice sounded impatient.
“A handgun, Sir. The shots were accurate. The craft received three hits. Two in the camera, the third took out the laser.”
The communicator remained silent. The operator felt hot. It was not his fault that the drones were not properly protected. These machines had not been designed for real-time combat, or at least not against targets that were capable of firing back. This one had however, and did it with high skill. The operator of drone number 20 felt that his career might depend on the outcome of this conversation. His palms were sweating.
“The situation is unusual,” said the Captain’s voice after a long break, “but your orders remain unchanged. Use manual aiming and visual contact. The subjects are to be disposed of as soon as possible. Command out.”
“Acknowledged, OP-20D out,” said the operator, but he was even more worried than before.
His training had of course included manual operation, but he had never shot at live, moving targets; the auto-aim laser was always handy for that. This would be his first time, and as he suspected his career probably did hang on the outcome.
He lowered his chair and put on the VR mask, which connected him to the drone’s camera and navigation systems, shutting out all outside stimuli, making him feel like he was flying. He switched to manual operation and took over the drone’s control. He really was flying.
***
Jumaane’s vision was becoming blurred. He was using his last reserves of energy. They had been running for several minutes, and he felt his legs were giving out once again. Hope had sustained him so far, but since the strange helicopter had found them he was doubting they would ever make it, and this doubt cost him dearly. He dragged himself along, but was ready to collapse at any moment. Running in front of him, the white man seemed to care little about whether he followed or not. The path wound before them, but the trees became more and more scarce. This worried him. No trees meant no shelter. Should another one of those flying machines find them, they would be an easy target out in the open. Yet he knew they must not leave the path; this was the only safe way.
He heard gunshots from behind but he dared not look back. Whoever was firing was still far away. He ran on, but then heard it again, from closer this time, accompanied by the now familiar whizzing sound. The helicopter was there.
The next moment bullets tore up the ground before them. He threw himself down. The hail of bullets ceased for a moment so he got up. He saw the white man getting up in front of him, looking at the sky. He looked at Jumaane, then looked up again. Then he jumped to the right. Jumaane followed. Several paces in front of them the path was turning right too. The white man was making a short-cut through the woods. He is smart. Probably the earth does not explode this close.
They reached the path again, and another burst of fire erupted behind them. The trees to their right were being cut down as if a giant razor were shaving the land. The man before him jumped to the left where the road was bending. Jumaane was getting it now. They would cut down every turn, so they can hide behind the trees. Maybe the helicopter wouldn’t see them there. The same happened at the next turn, but then the man stopped suddenly and Jumaane ran into him. The man held up his hand, then pointed in front of him. Before them, some twenty paces ahead, was a group of four soldiers with weapons raised and ready to fire, expecting to intercept them on the path ahead. If they came out from among the trees, they would be shot in an instant.
The next moment, the white man pushed Jumaane down and showed with his hands that he should stay put. Jumaane crouched, bewildered but obedient. He could not imagine what was happening, and it was all too fast for him to react. The white man got up and looked at the sky. The strange helicopter was upon them and it opened fire again. The man looked tense, every nerve in his body was almost visibly throbbing. He was looking up at the flying machine, then down to where the soldiers were. The bullets were tearing up the ground around him, but he did not move.
Jumaane wanted to shout at him to get down. He felt like jumping out to save him, but then the man broke into the most desperate run he had ever seen. Bushes gave way under his weight. He was rushing straight towards the group of soldiers like a charging bull. His face was a grimace of death, his mouth wide open, his eyes fiercely fixed on their target, but no sound left his mouth. He was as silent as death. And he was bringing death, Jumaane understood now. As the man rapidly approached the soldiers who were just now becoming aware of his appearance, the hail of bullets coming from the drone’s machine guns surrounded him like a deathly halo. He was only five strides from the soldiers, who were already turning towards him with weapons raised. Four paces. Three…
***
Scout 30S was in position, awaiting orders. He had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and had taken up the best possible spot, as far from his targets’ route as possible, where he would not be seen but he could still control at least forty metres of the footpath, just where it reached the road again. With the slightest turn, he could also see the road going up. He could really be prepared for anything from there.
He knew this was no usual mission. A team had already been lost and a patrolman had been murdered. He took extra care while concealing himself. He knew that even though his weapon was painted matte, and all his uniform was a perfect camo for the season, one with a keen eye would be able to spot him, so he deployed the net and dug himself deep into the leaves of the undergrowth. He was now virtually invisible. A ghost. And he was about to make two more ghosts to haunt these woods.
His communicator beeped and the Captain’s voice came in, “30S, this is Command.”
“Sunray, this is Three-Zero-Sierra, receiving loud and clear. Go ahead.”
“We have an emergency situation. We have lost 15-FS.”
That is impossible!
“Falcon-One-Zero-Four! The entire team? Over.”
‘Falcon one zero four’ was one of those phrases he had always hoped to use once, it practically meant ‘what the fuck?’, but he never had expected to have such an appropriate situation to use it in.
“Affirmative. One of the targets lured the manually controlled drone, using the inaccuracy of the heavy machine guns without laser assistance. The collateral included the entire 15-FS.”
This was insane. That cunning motherfucker turned their own weapons against them, but how?
“Roger so far, over.”
“You can lose the protocol now. Preserve it for radio communications. The situation is extremely serious. Subjects are armed, they have captured at least two sub-machineguns. Use extreme caution. They are headed in your direction, ETA under two minutes. OP-20D has been instructed to hold fire, you are safe to engage, but wait for confirmation first. There is no need for more unnecessary casualties. Command out.”
“Wilco, wait two,” said the Scout 30S.
So they were coming armed. It would be so much more fun to take them out this way. Like in a real situation. Real soldiers. Real weapons. He would have preferred to have the original order of engagement at will, but he was sure the confirmation would be timely. And it was cleaner this way, off his conscience and not his responsibility. Two minutes. He set his alarm to one minute and thirty seconds. Then he adjusted his eyepiece and began scanning the path.
The alarm soon went off. Three short, barely audible beeps, then it was silent again. They must be near. So they were. The two stumbling figures arrived exactly where he expected them to. One was a black illegal, skinny, his back bent. It limped on one ankle, its shoulder was bleeding. In its hand an army issue convertible sub-machinegun. The invader had stolen a weapon! But what followed was even worse. Clad in dark clothes, carrying a sub-machinegun in his right hand, his left arm hanging loose and bleeding, came the white scum.
He knew of HAs, he knew what they did, and he despised them for that. Helping the illegals to get across the border was enough to enrage a man like him to kill. Even though he was a part of the special operations too, he had never considered himself to be helping the invaders. He was merely following orders. But those ‘agents’ did just that. He would not think twice before pulling the trigger.
The subjects were moving fast.
“Command, this is 30S. I’ve got a visual lock.”
There was no answer. Now what? The subjects were moving rapidly and soon he would lose sight of them.
He tried again, “Command, I’ve got a lock on the contact. Ready to engage. Requesting confirmation.”
Nothing. He tried for a third time, with no answer still. After the third attempt he would engage at will. That was the previous order. If there was no confirmation, nor was his request denied within a reasonable time-frame, the previous order was to take precedence.
He steadied himself. He took a deep breath, filled his lungs, then blew all the air out. He took three slow breaths. Then he adjusted the objective, fitting the focus to the lowered blood pressure that would affect his eyesight. He saw the sharp image of his targets. He felt calm. He was ready.
He felt the trigger and focused on the fingertip. Now find the perfect spot. The targets reached the road and stopped for a moment to look around. This would be it. He drew the final breath before engagement. He had to restrain the adrenalin from entering his blood with a conscious effort. The thrill of the kill must remain delayed.
He aimed at the illegal first, it was the primary target. The AI in his weapon’s aiming system automatically compensated for a precisely calculated projectile trajectory, based on environmental clues like estimated wind speed and direction around the target, the distance of the target, and real-time air movement at his location. All he needed to do was to hold it steady, and fire at the right moment.
He slowly blew the air out and stopped midway, letting the rest of his breath hiss through his barely open mouth. He felt the trigger, squeezed it gently and held it for a moment, right on the spot before it engaged the electric switch.