First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) (33 page)

Singh shook his head.  “If we were in command of the war effort, Stalker, that would be a good idea,” he said.  “But as it is, no one really gives a damn.”

I wanted to argue, to point out that we’d been schooled in gathering intelligence to use against the enemy, but it wasn't the time or place.  Instead, we rejoined the rest of the platoon, did a quick check for injuries and then resumed our patrol.  I couldn't keep myself from looking at where the girl had died, unable to comprehend such evil.  Even the Undercity hadn’t been so vile ...

... But that wasn't really true, was it?  I’d known parents who’d sold their children into slavery - or worse.  They’d justified it to themselves, no doubt, by believing that the children would have a better life, although there was no way in hell that was true.  The lucky ones would be shipped out to a colony world, where they would be assigned to adoptive parents; the unlucky ones ... I didn't want to think about it.  At least the girl had died instantly, probably without ever knowing what had happened to her.

I ground my teeth in cold hatred.  Someone had given her the knapsack.  Someone had loaded it with a bomb and a remote detonator.  Someone had told her, a girl too young to understand the danger, to run towards us and ... and do what?  Hug us?  It didn't matter; the only thing that mattered was that they’d pushed the detonator as soon as she was close enough and blown her to hell.  They’d killed an innocent child, for nothing.  The worst we’d suffered was a handful of bruises.

“That happens a lot,” Lewis said, grimly.  “The local religion frowns on suicide, so the rebels use children or mentally-disabled people to carry bombs.  Or drivers who don’t know what they’re carrying ... I saw a woman pass into a checkpoint, as cool as you please, then die when the bomb under her car exploded.  We later found out that she hadn't known that she was a suicide bomber.”

I felt sick.  Who could
do
that to an innocent child?

When war is fought to the knife,
I reminded myself,
the rules of war go out the window
.

We heard the shouting and screaming as we kept moving forward; Singh ordered two fire teams to provide cover, while leading his fire team forward to see who was making the noise and why.  I covered him as we entered an alleyway; a woman was leaning against the wall, blood dripping from her nose, while a man was leaning over her, shouting something about having to keep his head down.  The woman opened her mouth to say something and he punched her, right in the chest.  She spewed up blood as she doubled over.

Singh didn't have to say anything.  We lunged forward, as one, and took the man down effortlessly.  He cowered at once; it wasn't enough to save him from a series of punches that didn't inflict permanent harm, but hurt.  I knew they hurt, all right.  I’d been on the receiving end at Boot Camp.  We swung him over and tied his hands while Rauls - the team medic - attended to the woman.  She was babbling something about her daughter ...

It struck me as I looked at her.  “Sergeant,” I said, “do you think she’s the mother of the girl ...?”

“Perhaps,” Singh said.  The woman seemed scared of us, but there was something in her eyes ... a spark of anger that overrode fear.  “If we take her back to the FOB ...”

He spoke to Rauls, then to the woman.  I couldn't hear what they said, but when they were finished he produced a plastic tie from his belt and secured her hands behind her back.  Her husband was hauled to his feet, a gag was stuffed in his mouth, and then he was shoved forward.  The woman followed him, looking downcast.

“They’ll be watching,” Lewis said.  “It would be better for both of them if the rebels think they weren't taken willingly.”

We headed back to the FOB, watching carefully for additional surprises.  An intelligence officer was already waiting for the prisoners; the man was marched off to the makeshift brig, while the woman was taken elsewhere.  Singh told us to grab some rest, then headed off to report to Captain Webb.  I didn't envy him the discussion he was about to have ...

“You did well, Stalker,” Lewis said.  Rauls and Atwell, the other fire team members, nodded in agreement.  “Welcome to the Weavers.”

Despite myself, I glowed.

Chapter Thirty-Three

As I have discussed before, it is unlikely in the extreme that insurgent movements will shrink from breaking the laws of war.  There is little for them to gain by challenging a vastly superior force to an open battle, even though it would allow them to claim the moral high ground.  Using children as suicide bombers is far from the worst tactic; they’ve done worse, far worse.  The Empire’s flat refusal to consider that the early insurgents might have a point only ensures that the later insurgents use any means necessary to win.

-Professor Leo Caesius

They didn’t give me any time to brood, which wasn't a bad idea.  I’d known horror - or so I’d thought - but using an innocent child as a suicide bomber?  The Undercity dwellers, at least, had the excuse of being raised in the Undercity; here, where there was more than enough land to spare, there should have been no call for
any
war.  But that was hopelessly idealistic, the result of long-buried envy for the upper-blockers.  They had their own reasons to fight.

We chattered briefly, sharing notes about our lives, then got about two hours of rest before we were summoned into the briefing room.  It wasn't much - a handful of chairs, a table, a paper map of the city hanging from the wall and a computer terminal that was switched off - but it was better than I’d expected.  I later learned that the computer terminal was only used when the brass turned up to demand briefings on just how many insurgents we’d killed in the last month or so.  But we couldn't kill our way to victory ...

“We may have had a lucky break,” Webb said, once we were seated.  “3rd Platoon took a woman into custody, a woman whose daughter was used as an unknowing and unwilling suicide bomber.  The woman was quite happy to tell us where the bomb-maker is hiding out, although he may no longer be there.  They presumably know she was taken into custody.”

I nodded.  It might have
looked
like we were taking prisoners, but the insurgents would assume the worst.  The woman wouldn't have had any treatments designed to neutralise truth drugs; willing or unwilling, she’d talk within a few minutes of being cuffed to a chair and shot with something designed to make her talkative.  But as long as the rebels thought she was an unwilling captive, they
might
not punish her for daring to betray them.

“We’re going to raid the complex and take everyone into custody,” Webb continued.  He pointed to the paper map, where a building was marked with a red flag.  “2nd and 3rd Platoons will carry out the raid itself, while the other platoons will take up positions here, here and here” - he pointed to a number of crossroads on the map - “and block any line of retreat.  No one, and I mean
no one
, is to leave without permission.  Once we have the site secured, I’ll call for an SSE team to go through the building and recover what they can.”

I frowned.  Why not have a team on alert right from the start?

“Prisoners will be shipped back here for interrogation,” Webb said.  “We need to take the bomb-makers alive, so use minimum necessary force.  These people are classed as High-Value Targets and I don’t want any of them to enter the local POW camps; if someone turns up and demands that they’re handed over to the locals, tell them to piss off and direct any further complaints to me.  Any questions?”

There were none.  “I’ll be calling for mobile fire support once the raid gets underway,” Webb told us.  “Good luck.”

I caught Singh as we headed outside, checking our weapons as we moved.  “Sergeant,” I said carefully, “why
not
have the SSE team on alert now?”

“They’re not based here, Stalker,” Singh said.  He sounded irked; asking questions wasn't discouraged, at least not when we weren't under fire, but I was dangerously close to questioning his commanding officer.  They’d served together for several years.  “To call them, Captain Webb would need to speak to General Gordon, perhaps even Governor Pritchett.  By the time they came to a decision, the entire planet would know we were planning a raid on a sensitive site.  The bombers would put two and two together, guess they were the intended target and bugger off.”

“Shit,” I said.

“Quite,” Singh said.  He gave me a leer.  “And for every one of the bastards we kill, capture or otherwise put out of business, another one will spring up to take his place.  Now, grab your gun and get ready to move.”

I’d been wondering how Captain Webb intended to keep the enemy from realising that we were on the way.  An entire company of marines - a hundred men - was hard to miss, certainly in the middle of a crowded city.  But Webb had developed a habit of running random patrols through our Area of Responsibility, just to keep the rebels on their toes - and, more importantly, to keep from building up repetitive patterns they could use to hit us.  They wouldn't see anything particularly surprising in ten platoons making an advance into the city, ready to provide mutual support if necessary.  Indeed, unless they were feeling particularly reckless, they’d be likely to batten down the hatches and stay well out of sight.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” Singh ordered.  “There’s no shortage of idiots around here.”

Should try to get them to fight for the royalists
, I thought sourly, as a bunch of young men came into view.  What would these young men have made of themselves if they’d had half a chance?  They could hardly have ended up in a worse place than Charlie City, where the opened sewers stunk of piss, shit and decomposing flesh and disease was rampant. 
But why would they risk their lives for their king
?

The young idiots in question shouted a handful of taunts, which we ignored, and then fell behind as we crossed from one housing estate to the next.  This one looked a little neater - the rubbish, at least, had been piled up in one place - and the private security guards seemed a little more professional.  But I had a feeling the enemy had feelers everywhere, even inside the secure housing estate.  And who lived there, in any case?

“God knows,” Lewis said.  “But they have money.”

I pushed the thought away as we turned and headed down the street, towards the bomb-maker’s hideout.  It looked like every other house; a cold concrete block, utterly soulless, without even a pretence at a garden in front.  Officially, such houses were normally intended to serve immigrants who would then move on to something better, but in reality they’d long since become permanent dwellings.  I saw eyes peering down at us, half-hidden behind curtains, that vanished as the owners realised I could see them.  It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else’s business, which raised the question of precisely how the bomb-makers had managed to remain there for so long.  But I knew the answer; the locals either hated the government or were terrified of the insurgents.  And they had good reason for both.

“On my mark,” Singh ordered, very quietly.  “Lewis, I want you to take the lead.”

“Aye, sergeant,” Lewis said.  He’d told me he had a badge in EOD, as well as a number of other awards.  “We could go through the wall ...”

“Too much chance of causing a disaster,” Singh said.  “We go through the door ...
mark
.”

We moved as one; Lewis reached the door and checked it carefully, then picked the lock with a tool from his belt and kicked it open.  There was a shout from inside, but no explosion; the bomb-makers must not have realised that the woman knew where they lived.  We crashed inside, weapons at the ready; I opened fire with the stunner as soon as I saw three men, spraying their bodies with stun pulses.  Civilians think that stunners work perfectly, but the truth is that even a thin layer of clothes can provide a certain degree of protection.  The men collapsed; I shot them again, just to be sure, as Singh pushed past us and charged into the next room.

“Four more in here,” Singh said.

I followed him inside, my rifle raised.  It looked like a schoolroom, one more fascinating than anything I’d seen on Earth.  A handful of commonly-available household products lay on a large table, ready for conversion into IEDs; behind them, there were a number of military-grade detonators and a box of plastic explosives, thankfully not prepped for detonation.  My instructors had had their doubts about the crap the Imperial Army used for its weapons - apparently, it was so hard to make it explode that it was sometimes impossible - but it might have worked in our favour.  There hadn't been any time for the terrorists to blow the building and kill us, as well as their students.

“Get upstairs,” Singh ordered, as we heard someone rattling overhead.  “Hurry!”

We ran up the stairs, abandoning caution.  I unhooked a gas grenade from my belt and threw it into the room, then followed; the terrorists started to choke at once as yellow gas billowed through the room, in no condition for a fight.  One of them managed to get to his feet; I slammed my rifle butt into his head, knocked him down and stunned him.  The others were still puking helplessly as we stunned them, called it in and moved to the next room.

“Fuck me,” Lewis said, as he peered inside.  “If I’d done this in training ...”

His voice trailed off.  I peered past him and swore.  The room was a safety violation that would have had Bainbridge screaming, let alone a safety inspector from the Imperial Army’s Inspectorate General.  He'd probably have a heart attack the moment he saw the collection of detonators, makeshift explosives and a number of highly-unpleasant chemical compounds.  A spark in the wrong place and the entire building would have gone up like a baby nuke.  There was no number of push-ups that could make up for such an error, although Bainbridge would probably have invented some new numbers.  Anyone stupid enough to get through Boot Camp and
then
store explosives so carelessly would be discharged through an airlock, rather than merely kicked off the training course.

“You would probably have been summarily strangled by the instructor,” I said.  “Is it safe for the moment?”

“I wouldn't count on it,” Lewis said, grimly.  He shook his head in disbelief.  “If the acid had melted through the containers and dripped onto the detonators ... they’d have killed themselves without ever knowing what hit them.”

I keyed my radio.  “Sergeant, we have a Code Black here,” I said.  “We need to evacuate the building until it can be made safe.”

“Understood,” Singh said.  “Lewis?”

“I’d prefer not to stay here any longer than necessary,” Lewis said.  He ran through a brief outline of what we’d found.  “This isn't a fixed IED, Sergeant.  There’s no way to disarm it by removing the detonator or the explosives.”

“Snap the scene, then grab the prisoners and get them outside,” Singh ordered, after a moment.  “We’ll call in additional EOD experts before proceeding.”

“Aye, Sergeant,” I said.

Lewis took a number of photographs as I checked the rest of the upper floor, then returned to the first room and began to secure the prisoners.  One of them looked to be halfway to choking to death on his own vomit; I hesitated, just for a second, before slapping him on the back to clear his throat.  There
was
a need to interrogate them, after all.  Lewis joined me after a moment and together we carried the bastards downstairs and dumped them in the street.  2nd Platoon had secured the surroundings and started bellowing warnings for the locals to stay inside and away from the windows.  I had a feeling everyone would heed their commands.

“Got crowds forming on the edge of the perimeter,” a voice said, through the intercom.  “I think they’re being stirred up.”

“Snipers, deal with the agitators,” Webb ordered.  “Helicopters are inbound.”

I looked down at the prisoners as the remainder of the EOD officers appeared.  The prisoners looked young, save for a couple who were clearly older, if not wiser.  Their scarred hands suggested that they’d spent
years
working with dangerous compounds.  Probably the bomb-makers, I decided, here to teach the youth of Charlie City how to make bombs and blow up a few of their enemies.  Their students looked around fifteen to nineteen; I was surprised, despite myself, to recognise that two of them were definitely young girls.  The locals didn't have any cultural history of treating women as second-class citizens, according to the files, but they’d definitely developed a habit of protecting their wives and daughters from everyone else. 

Except that rat bastard sent his daughter to become an unwilling bomber
, I thought, fighting down the urge to vomit. 
Did he give her up willingly or was he taking his helplessness out on his wife?