| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | I'm Fine, Mom |
| Date: | Mon, 10 Nov 1997 21:55:05 +0000 |
+++++FROM: UCAS Embassy, Aden, Republic of Yemen
+++++TO: Mrs J S Carson, Buffalo, NY, UCAS
+++++PAYMENT DUE: 4.2nY
+++++Payment accepted, message sent
+++++Message being delivered
>>>>>[Mom, it's me. I'm okay, but you wouldn't _believe_ what happened
to me. Watch this...
+++++begin video
The view is from a miner's helmet camera (popular with shift bosses for
investigating accidents). The helmet in question upside-down facing a
mirror. Visible there is an attractive woman in her twenties: she's
dusty and shows the signs of a hard shift. Standing in front of a
washbasin in T-shirt and jeans, she's busy rinsing dust off her
forearms: the front of the helmet is stencilled with "CARSON, B.",
presumably her name.
The lights flicker and dim, then die: and she looks around in surprise
as a distant concussion shakes the locker room and a noise like surf
breaking on a beach can be heard. Picking up the helmet and flicking its
light on, she walks briskly to the door and looks out. As the heavy door
opens, a wall of sound hits, a rushing crackle of gunfire.
The camp is lit only by dim emergency lights and by helmet lamps, by the
searchlights of the APCs as they probe the darkness, and by the yellow
flames billowing from a building near the minehead. The generator
building... and the backup hasn't cut in either. Bright tracers are
zipping about like rabid fireflies.
"What the hell...?" Carson says incredulously, watching amazed as five,
then ten, then a dozen or more green-clad men run into view among the
buildings. All carry AK-97s or other weapons, and many are firing.
Bullets ricochet off the concrete by Carson and she falls prone with a
cry of pain.
More and more of the invaders are visible, as the miner crawls back into
the locker room and peers around the door, this time without her helmet
light on. They're concentrating their fire on one of the accommodation
buildings, and muzzle flashes wink back from it in return: other
attackers are fanning out into the minehead and the equipment sheds, or
trading fire with the guard tower. Engines are starting and heavier
weapons firing.
The tower suddenly explodes, and the attackers cheer raggedly.
"What the frag..." Suddenly Carson is thrown backwards into the locker
room, half-a-dozen men rushing in past her; as the man who struck her
jabs his AK-97 into her face and jabbers something in Arabic. All of
them are bearded, all are wearing large amounts of green, all are armed
with assault rifles. She struggles to rise, and her captor strikes her
across the jaw with the rifle muzzle, drawing a cry of pain.
The others return, satisfied that the locker room and showers are empty:
one says something in Arabic and the others laugh, regarding Carson with
dark eyes. One closes the door, as she is motioned to her feet and
stands, her back to the wall and looking nervously from man to man: one
of them, an Ork who the others seem to look to for leadership, says in
accented English "Undress, whore."
Carson shakes her head, and the Ork laughs: reaching out, he grabs the
neck of the T-shirt and tears it half open: she can't retreat and the AK
aimed at her face rules out any resistance.
The six Arabs around her are suddenly five, then four, as the rearmost
two fall backwards. The others begin to turn, and as the rifle moves
away Carson kicks the Ork in the groin. She brings up a steel-toed
workboot with all a miner's strength and with a fearfully precise
accuracy: he shrieks shrilly and doubles over, clutching his crotch in
agony.
In the gap thus opened, you see a lean figure moving too fast for any
detail to be resolved. Two of the Arabs fall away almost in slow motion,
an incredibly crimson spray of blood pumping from one's throat: they
seem almost paralysed compared to their foe's speed.
The third has taken only three or four running steps towards the door -
open, where it had been closed - when a shot rings out; he throws his
hands up to Heaven and falls as if kicked in the spine.
Her rescuer - male, human, pale-skinned and dark-haired, wearing jeans
and a battered leather flying jacket - lowers the rifle slightly. Blood
drips from the bayonet.
"You okay... Carson?" He must have read her nametape.
"I'll be fine. Why didn't you just shoot them all?" Carson pulls on her
dust-covered work jacket as the mercenary begins methodically searching
the bodies.
"Ricochets. Start spraying bullets around in here and I'd have killed
you as well as them. Maybe even myself. The last one, I had time to aim.
You know how to use a rifle?"
"Just about. Used to hunt deer with my brothers."
"Good enough." The man passes her an AK-97 and a handful of magazines.
"Keep your head down. Camp's been overrun, most of the merc force is
making a fighting retreat, you missed a ride out in an ore truck. We're
cut off inside, and there must be hundreds of these bastards out there."
"Who are they?" Carson asks, stowing the curved AK magazines in her
jacket pockets.
"Yemeni Jihad of National Liberation. Hard-line Shi'ia rebels, trying to
establish an Islamic state. They claim. Intel says it's really just
their leader's private army, and the religious part is just a recruiting
tool. These guys aren't real Muslims, we checked."
"We?"
"Strategic Intelligence Gathering Agency." Carson's rescuer is stackin
up AK magazines, food and water, still warily watching the doorway. "We
were worried about these guys, I came out to evaluate the situation. My
report, surprise surprise, is that things are fucked up. We've got to
get out of here."
"I guessed. Road?"
"No hope. The mercs are fighting clear that way, the Gomers are all over
it. West, into the mountains, then we go cross-country. Fifty miles to
the coast road, two or three days if we hustle. You'd better be in good
shape."
"What about the mine crew?"
"A lot got out on the trucks. The rest will be dead or captured within
fifteen minutes." The stranger shrugs. "There's at least five hundred
troops attacking. There were thirty of us to defend, but some of the
local help shot up the command centre and the fuel dump, and being smart
guys the mercs are bugging out and taking as many of the mine crew with
them as they can. Figure it out. Follow me, keep up, keep your head
down, don't shoot unless you're already being shot at." He pulls the
rucksack off one corpse - the only one so burdened - and rapidly begins
to rummage its contents, discarding a sleeping bag and other items,
adding his booty.
+++++camera memory exhausted
+++++begin new recording
Roberta watches Lynch quizzically, as he finishes scanning the horizon
before skidding back down the rocky slope. "Looks clear." the dusty
mercenary says, and begins gathering the brushwood and driftwood that
had gathered in the gully floor. A small, smokeless yellow flame leaps
as if from nowhere, spreads into a warming glow.
"Is it safe?"
"Which?" he grins. "The fire, the gully, resting here?"
"All three. Plus are we going to live through this?"
"The fire, no problem. The Berbers - the local nomads - are all setting
camp for the night, we won't stand out. The gully, should be dry for a
few more weeks. When it starts raining, she'll flash-flood, though."
"When's it going to rain?"
"Two, maybe three weeks. Not tonight, at least." Lynch sounds very sure.
"Resting here... you'd have to trip over us to find us. Big rocky
desert, and Akbar only has so many troops. The Berbers might be more of
a problem, but they hate Akbar too. We can take the chance. Besides, his
guys don't like to move in darkness. Once I get you somewhere safe I'll
be resting by day and hunting at night."
The complete assurance in his voice obviously jolts Roberta. "There's
ten thousand of them and one of you, and you say you're going to hunt
_them_?"
The mercenary begins to carefully clean the Heckler and Koch rifle,
wiping dust off the receiver and smartlink unit with a soft cloth.
"That's the funny thing." he says meditatively. "The night's full of
them. And there's only one of me. How do you tell friend from foe out
here? I know there are no friendlies. They have to check and check
again, because it's probably one of their own men." He shrugs. "It means
I can make them afraid of the night."
"Which achieves...?" Roberta asks with a slight sarcastic edge.
"By itself, not much. But it makes me feel a damn sight better." Lynch
obviously decides against breaking the G3K down for further cleaning,
instead reloading the magazines he'd emptied earlier with bright brass
7.62mm cartridges.
"Is that where we're headed?"
"Nope. I'll get you a ride to Aden, the UCAS Embassy will get you home.
Camp Two may or may not hold, either way it's surrounded. Which means I
know where to find some Gomers." He carefully adjusts a control on the
smartgun adapter's side, nods with satisfaction.
"How many men have you killed, Lynch?" Roberta asks after a long moment.
He looks tired. "I have no fucking idea. It must be past the thousands."
"How can you not know?"
"You saw the shooting last night. I put down rounds at muzzle flashes.
Did I hit him? Is he wounded? Dead? Reloading? Running? Who knows? Add
in more uncertainty when you call in artillery fire, or drop cluster
bombs, or any other area weapon. Like I said, I really don't know. I've
been killing for twenty years now, it's probably a fucking obscene
number."
"Don't you ever get sick of it?"
"Yeah. You learn to choose your fights carefully, or else you go nuts.
But I could kill Akbar and his maniacs all week with a smile, for
instance." Lynch lights a cigarette, draws hard on it. "Looks like I'll
have to, as well."
"You could just get out of here..."
"I've got at least fifty friends captured or dead, and more than a
hundred more trapped here to be slaughtered in the name of Akbar's home-
made holy war. He's an apostate, did you know that? The Council of
Mullahs in Teheran have denounced him as abusing the teachings of the
Prophet for his own gain, and they take that seriously. Big bounty from
them if someone kills him. Doesn't help right here right now, though.
Anyway, too many friends caught in the wire. Got to go back for them."
Lynch throws the Marlboro butt into the fire and reaches for another.
Roberta regards the lean, dusty figure - the light from the sky has
gone, very suddenly. The reddish firelight conceals the pale cast of
Lynch's skin, giving him the coppery tone of his Sioux ancestors. The
rifle is a Heckler and Koch G3KA4 semi-automatic, not a lever-action
Henry or Winchester: but with the small decorations in his long, black
hair - the fire lighting the grey streaks with reddish-gold flickers -
and his calm composure, he could be from a 19th century woodcut showing
"Lo, the Poor Indian" or "The Sioux Menace" for the East Coast city
folk
to quake at.
"And you might just do it as well..." she mutters.
"People sometimes call me Geronimo as an insult." Lynch replies, laying
his rifle down and using his pack as a pillow. "They should have
studied."
+++++pause
+++++resume
Lynch rises slightly from where he's lying. "Gotcha."
"Where?"
"Two miles. Civilian truck, in a hurry. Follow me." He is at once
skidding over the ridge and down the slope towards the road, his rifle
held clear of the gravel. Carson follows cautionsly.
She is still picking her way down when Lynch steps into the middle of
the road, one hand imperiously raised and the other keeping the H&K
rifle braced on his hip. The battered Chrysler-Nissan pickup slows to a
halt, and Lynch walks to the driver's window: as Carson reaches him, she
sees the driver's fear-filled face, as he gabbles frantic Arabic at her.
Lynch replies sternly in the same language, and the driver nervously
leans across to open his passenger door.
"Get in. It's two hours to Aden: he'll take you straight to the UCAS
Embassy. Tell them I authorised a repatriation bond payment. "
"What about you?" Carson asks.
Lynch straightens, reaches into a pocket of his leather jacket and
extracts a small plastic case: opening it reveals a mirror and several
colours of camouflage cream. "Like I said", he comments conversationally
as he begins applying black paint in a band across his cheekbones, "with
you on your way to somewhere safe, I can fight my own little war." He
checks the result, nods, adds another part of the design.
"What is that? Warpaint?"
"Exactly." Lynch says softly. "Akbar wanted a war. Now he has one. Take
care, Carson. Mail me when you get home, I'd be glad to know when you
made it. And send a message to Lieutenant Lilith Lynch, SIGA, via the
Pentagon mailserver. Tell her I'm okay, and tell her 'The Young British
Soldier'. "
Carson nods, climbs nervouslytinto the dusty passenger seat of the
pickup (the AK slung at her side banging on the door) and the driver
accelerates away at once. The lone figure in the road behind her raises
a hand in salute, as a goodbye, whatever: then as the pickup rounds a
turn he is gone.
+++++end video
And that was the last I ever saw of him.]<<<<<
-- Roberta Carson <21:54:25/11-10-58>
