Spec-Ops

  L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

  “We can’t afford a war, General.”

  “We’ll have a war with Seasia sooner or later. We can afford later less than sooner.”

  “The people won’t stand for it, and no nation has ever stood for long against the will of its citizens.”

  “Then change their minds. We need this war.”

  “Change your weapons, General, if you need this war.”

  Excerpt from: The Right War

  SONYDREAMS, 2043

  * * * *

  I.

  1559. Khorbel deJahn slid into the dim pod, sensies flicking to Duty OpsCon.

  “Up-what, sir?”

  “You’re last, Tech deJahn. Chimbats,” replied the major. “Nu-type. Seasies haven’t seen. Take over from Hennesy. Third seat.”

  Leastwise, no scroaches. DeJahn link-pulsed.

  Hennesy blinked, unlinked, and stood. “You got it, deJahn.”

  “Got it.”

  Hennesy had left the sensie-seat hot, damp. DeJahn wiped it with the cloth he always brought. Still hated taking over a hot seat. Leastwise, he was beside Meralez.

  Her eyes were open, link-blank. Sexy eyes when she was in her skull, not like now.

  He pulled the thin mesh cap into place over his short mil-cut hair. Made sure the contacts handshook, blanked his thoughts, and settled into the link. Tech first deJahn.

  Accepted. Flash background: Chimbats. Three families, each of twenty-five units. Target: any personnel at biointerdict station beta-four. See plot.

  Firsties were just chitterings, light-darts in blackness. Be a while before the biogator expelled the chimbats from the pouch under its ridged back. Side-mind went to the back plot, illuminated only in his thoughts. Green blips were the gators, swimming upstream after a tidal boost. Red blip was target—Seasie biointerdict station. An hour plus to release.

  DeJahn hated pre-release. Babysitting chims just in case the vector got zapped. Seasies weren’t going to see gators in one of a dozen canals and muddy streams, not the main river channel.

  He might have slept in the dark pod. Would have slept, except for the majors overscreening and the checks. Time passed. Slowly.

  DeJahn stifled a yawn, compared closure rate once more. Ran a complete monitor on the bioindicators, then reported. 1630. On course, on target.

  Stet, Tech deJahn.

  More dark and quiet time. Time where his thoughts, behind the link, lingered on Meralez. Good body, better voice. Reminded him of Margot. Probably not good.

  Wished Meralez weren’t pseudo les-butch. Could be a front. Keep the tech types from pawing. Hazard of spec-ops. Had to find ways to remember who you were.

  Sex and women helped. Did men help the female techs? Or not? That why so many women partnered with other women?

  More time passed in darkness. More chitterings as the chimbats got restless, their soporifics wearing off. Screen checks came, went.

  Ten to release, Tech. Request acknowledge.

  Stet. Ten to release. DeJahn hated the obvious. Major knew he was ready.

  Linked, wasn’t he? Mil-type reduns still plagued pros like him.

  Chitterings increased. Chimbats getting restless as the sops wore off.

  Five to release.

  Stet.

  The chitterings were almost as bad as the scuttling and scrapings that came with the scroaches, and the smell…Tech ops said there wasn’t sensie smell.

  Spec-ops techs knew better.

  Stand by for release. Release... now!

  Disorientation. Always that. Hundreds of sound-sights flashed through the integrator before settling into a shifting mosaic as the chimbats fanned out, spreading wings, pulsing the terrain, receiving sound images.

  Backwater canal below, hard to judge but no more than thirty feet wide. Grimy gray-brown surface showed the wakes of the gators. No sonic-visual on the gators.

  They weren’t designed that way. Water blocked most of the bats’ sonar return.

  DeJahn squinted to focus the image. Wasn’t a real squint, but the sensie-link equivalent. Trees slumped bedraggled limbs into the water on both sides of the canal.

  He checked the mind sidescreen. Target was six thousand yards at zero seven one. Chimbats were sweeping across the water, scooping up insect fuel, following the canal at zero-four-four. Another two thousand, and he’d have to nudge them right.

  Gators had fallen behind, following the canal. They would for another thousand yards, then would take the cross canal. No one had told deJahn, but there was a soarer-boat patrol base on the east side of the delta. Each gator could take out one, maybe two, of the boats. Boats gone, or fewer of them, and there’d be a chance to bring in the dreadnaughts—the salties. Handful of them, and there wouldn’t be a patrol base. With the rivers in spec-ops’ hands, be an open vector lane for all the ricelands in the area, and the J-wasps could immobilize the quantum wetworks at Chuo-Klyseen.

  DeJahn forced his mind back to the chimbats. They needed to follow the overgrown path to the right... more right. He exerted the pressure of danger to the left, and the lure of food, big juicy mosquitoes to the left. Heat built around him. He had to ignore it, center the chimbats on course toward the target.

  Thirty-two hundred and closing. That was a quick link-flash to the major, to keep him from sending an inquiry while deJahn was setting up the attack.

  Nineteen hundred yards, and all the chimbats “saw” was trees and insects, and the “brightness” of water in places from an afternoon rain.

  The trees vanished, replaced by paddies that didn’t hold rice, or water, except for the thinnest layer, but various electronic and biosensors. Beyond the paddies was the interdict station. It didn’t look like much, not in the sensie-integrated mosaic in deJahn’s mind, just a gray square on an artificial square bluff seven yards above the soggy soil of the delta. Four thatched huts—the kind no one had lived in, even in Seasia, in generations—set around a graveled courtyard. Gravel? In a delta?

  Chimbats’ sonar showed the harder composite walls that supported the bluff edges, and the mix of steel and plastic hidden under the pseudo thatch.

  Pseudo bats, pseudo thatch, pseudo bluff. . . frig! Was anything real?

  The mission was real.

  DeJahn exerted pressure, creating the sense and image of insect prey just below the roofs of the pseudo thatch.

  Chimbats angled down, wings near-silent, fangs filled with solvent and venom.

  Light! So brilliant that deJahn’s eyes boil-burned in their sockets.

  Except it wasn’t light. Sound! That was it. Screaming sound, blinding the chimbats. Feedback blasted through him. Felt like his eardrums were bursting, and long needles lanced through his eyes, coming out the back of his skull.

  Frig! Major’d said the chimbats were new types ...

  Blackness wiped it all away.

  An alarm buzzed ... sawing into him. It buzzed again.

  Somewhere, something nagged at him, telling him to wake up ... but he could sleep in, couldn’t he? Sunday morning, wasn’t it?

  Tech deJahn . . . trigger recovery sequence . . . Recovery sequence . . .

  Recovery sequence? His thoughts were sluggish. He had to do something ...

  didn’t he? Recovery sequence? A chill ran up his spine. Recovery one! Recovery one!

  Link one... link two ...

  After a moment, or several, deJahn could feel the barriers dropping. Persona segmentation was frightening—but it had saved more than a few spec-ops techs from biobacklash syndrome ... or worse.

  He blinked. He still couldn’t see. Vision was usually late to return, but he didn’t like being in the dark.

  Interrogative status?

  Reintegration seventy-one percent complete.

  What was seventy-one percent of a tech? He wanted to laugh. He forced his teeth together.

  The blackness began to evaporate, and holes appeared in it. One hole showed the recovery medtech looking from the porta-console to deJahn and back again.

  Another hole showed the dark greenish gray bulkhead of the spec-ops pod.

  After a moment, deJahn blinked, then coughed. “Think I’m back.”

  “He’s green.” The medtech’s voice was bored, almost disappointed. He stood, nodded, and replaced the porta-console in its case before leaving the pod.

  “Just sit there for a while,” ordered the major.

  DeJahn glanced around the pod. All the other sensie-stations were empty. He supposed that was good.

  Then the shudders began.

  It took fifteen minutes before deJahn was ready to stand. He must have been the last. Or the only idiot who hadn’t disengaged fast enough.

  He looked at the major. The officer’s cold green eyes showed nothing.

  “Thought you said these chimbats were new. They were ready for them.”

  “They were new. Some of them got through. About half the station’s inoperative.” The eyes softened, into mere green glass. “Get some rest, Tech.

  You’re off schedule tomorrow. Check with med on Monday.”

  “Yes, sir.” DeJahn took two slow steps to the pod exit station, pressed his fingertips on the pad.

  Cleared to depart. Status amber . . . off duty, pending medical. The exit irised open.

  DeJahn took a step into the passageway outside the pod. Each step was deliberate. His balance felt off. Could be the beating his ears had taken.

  His poopsuit stunk. Sweat and everything else. Biofeedback was hell on a tech’s personal system, no matter what the new sies said. Especially when your vectors got blasted before you disengaged.

  He needed a shower and something to eat. There were still holes in his vision.

  * * * *

  II.

  “What is the point of a weapon?”

  “To defeat someone, or to force them to accede to what the wielder wishes.”

  “What is defeat?”

  “The surrender of a position, goods, territory, or even a point of view.”

  “Who determines defeat?”

  “Either total destruction or surrender by the one who’s in the weaker position

  ...”

  * * * *

  III.

  0340. DeJahn bolted up in the narrow bunk. Sleep like deep link cobwebbed his thoughts. Sat there, unmoving. Two days off hadn’t helped that much.

  0345. He swung his feet onto the plastipress deck, knew he had to get moving, get to the pod for duty rotation. Didn’t want to be last. Might be scroaches, or chimshrews. Bunk above was empty. Stennes had midwatch on screens.

  DeJahn pulled on a clean poopsuit, knowing he’d need to drop off the soiled ones below before his next duty. Chim-duty was hell on uniforms. Softboots followed the poopsuit, and he fastened the bag with his linkcap to his waistband.

  Closed the slider behind him and hurried along the dim passageway and up the circular ramp, past electro-ops, and to the spec-ops pod.

  0352. DeJahn’s fingers stopped short of the pod access plate. Took a moment before he touched the pad. It sucked the heat from his fingertips.

  Entry granted The pod door irised open, and deJahn slid inside. His sensies flicked to the captain standing Duty OpsCon. “Tech deJahn reporting, sir.”

  “Take number two, Tech deJahn,” replied the captain.

  DeJahn stepped up beside the sensie console and link-pulsed. He was relieving Suares.

  The wiry tech didn’t blink. He just stood. “Its yours, deJahn. Scowls, tonight.

  Best hurry. They’re in free hunt.”

  “Got it.”

  DeJahn touched the sensie-seat. Suares left it cool. He always did. DeJahn didn’t know how. Still, he wiped the seat before he settled down. Once more, no scroaches. He kept the sigh inside, then slipped on the mesh cap, checked the handshake, and linked into the scowls.

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

  Accepted. Flash background: Scowls. Initial target: guards, research station gamma three-one. Primary target: technicians.

  Frigging great. He had to pull the scowls off free hunt after they took out enough guards to get an opening for the scroaches and turn them to finding the scientists and technicians who were doing the research.

  A sharpness of gray images overtook him, so clear that they were more disorienting than the fuzzy sharpness that came with chimbats. Disorientation through precision. Better that than the looming wavering images and prey lust that pervaded the scroach links.

  As Suares had said, the scowls were in free hunt.

  Checking the mind sidescreen, deJahn verified the target, a bioware research station. Small, no more than fifteen science types, and twice that many guards. The scowls were priority programmed, as much as a modified owl could be. The guards were secondary. Guards didn’t create biotech and bioweapons. What the station produced or researched, deJahn didn’t know. He switched views from the too-distant shifting composite, to one scowl after another, stopping at one stooping into an attack on a guard post.

  One of the guards turned and fired. The incendiary pellets exploded into a cage of flame and fire. The stab of pain ran down deJahn’s back for an instant before he disengaged that link, later than he should have.

  Quick-switching again, deJahn caught the feedback view from next owl as it struck the guards arm. Fire-venom from the talons went straight to the guard’s nerves. In instants, the guard was shaking so badly the fire-rifle struck the plastcrete under his boots. In seconds, he was beside the rifle, bones breaking under the convulsive power of his own hyped muscles.

  More scowls feathered down. Alarms began to screech, and the second guard sealed the booth. That would only buy him minutes before the first scroach ate its way through the heavy plastic.

  DeJahn switched images. He didn’t need to see what the adapted scorpion-roaches would do. At the next guard post, the sentries were still bringing down scowls, each scowl death a line of flame into his own nerves, but the guards did not see the wave of scroaches close to underfoot, advancing inexorably.

  He began to exert pressure, shifting the rodent-prey image, strengthening it, and positioning it to bring the scowls through the failing screens into the technical area. The guards were the initial target, just the initial target.

  Primary target was scientists and technicians . . . primary target...

  * * * *

  IV.

  You got bioethics issues in chim-ops. Stuff those. Big question, that’s whether mod-techno weapons should be used in war at all... Two soldiers faced off at Waterloo. A bunch stormed beaches at Normandy against another bunch, or even slog-fought in the jungles of Vietnam against a VC bunch.

  Back then, fighters on both sides died. Lots of them. Different today.

  Americans changed it all when they high-teched the Middle East, used biowar in Iran. Nowadays, the tech-types use chim-ops, spec-ops, remote ops.

  Nothing touches them. Just like old Greek gods, they throw lightnings, never see what they’ve done, don’t ever experience the horror. Think our special operatives are even soldiers at all? Or just techno-chims themselves?

  —Editorial, Whazup Tonight

  March 15, 2051

  * * * *

  V.

  Thursday before breakfast, deJahn had to shower. Sometimes, dreams were almost as bad as infiltration spec-ops themselves. Even flying the scowls with the scroaches following had been bad enough. He needed a long shower, but water was one thing a forward base had. Surrounded by it. He dressed deliberately. He still had enough clean poopsuits. He’d finally reclaimed enough fresh ones for the days ahead.

  He felt cleaner, for the moment, before he headed down the passageway to the tech mess and breakfast. Softboots whispered on the deck. Hard to believe that fifty yards up through the overhead was what looked like marsh and reeds in the river delta.

  Tech mess was an oval room with five tables and dispensers and formulators.

  He tapped out his selections on the formulator, then set them on the tray, and carried the tray to the table where Meralez and Castaneda sat. Castaneda was the butch that Meralez fronted being.

  Castaneda gestured. “Look like shit, deJahn.”

  “You, too, Castaneda.”

  “All of us look like shit, all right?” Meralez laughed. “Good thing nothings up but surveillance today.”

  DeJahn liked her laugh. Warm, sort of sexy, not in-your-face.

  “You’ve got a thought-look,” Meralez suggested.

  After swallowing a mouthful of bagel burrito, deJahn nodded, then took a sip of coffee, bitter. One thing formulators didn’t do well, along with tea and chocolate.

  “Well?”

  “Was a time when special ops meant guys with guns dropping on chutes into jungle,” replied deJahn. “Some ways, more honest.”

  “Honest? Strange word, think you?” Meralez brushed back mahogany hair too short to move.

  “Strange?”

  “Snuffed is snuffed,” replied Meralez. “Back then, it was lead, steel jackets, osmiridium, metal projectiles at high speed. Now, we’re using J-wasps, S-wasps, scroaches, scowls, biogaters, snators. They’re using phonies stuffed with ultra-ex, semiclones with biopaks. We text envirosave, and they text reclaiming their heritage and defeating imperialism. Some of us get snuffed, and some of them do. Back a century, it was the same. Any more honest then than now? Don’t think so. Back then, the officers ordered. The senior ones lived, the junior ones died like techs, and lots more techs died than now.”

  For a moment, deJahn considered her words. They were hers, what she thought, and that was good.

  “The senior officers, brass balls and iron tits ... all the same,” snorted Castaneda.

  “All the same, what?” A cheerful laugh followed the words.

 

1 2 3