Illegal Alien

"Panganidan, handing over to Commander, United Nations Intervention Force. Over."

"Whoever you are, this is Brigadier-General Perron, commanding United Nations Intervention Force, San Martinez zone. I am advising you that we are under United Nations orders to intervene to rescue and protect civilians in the vicinity of San Martinez who are perceived to be at threat of illegal acts of terror from factional violence. I will shortly be ordering intervention forces to begin landing. We are in communication with civilians under attack. A war-crimes investigation unit is now being dispatched immediately. I am authorized to use force in the event of any resistance. Perron over."

I flicked the mike back on. "Yo, Perron. This is Captain Wong, National Liberation Army of the Second Republic, and you fire one fucking shot, or put one fucking foot on the soil of the Second Republic and you're guilty of criminal acts under the laws of the Second Republic, the punishment for which is up to and including the death penalty, which WILL be implemented. We do not recognize the authority of the United Nations, we do not recognize your authority to intervene in the detention of armed criminals within the territory of the Second Republic and I'm officially fucking warning you. You do that and it's a criminal act of terrorism 'n that's how the Second Republic will treat it. First warning. Last warning. Fuck off. Wong over."

I flicked the mike off, handed the headset back to Jacobs. "Let's get the fuck outa here guys, they'll have us pinpointed by now if they're any good."

"Goddamn Borealeans," Maddock spat. "They're not bad at that sorta shit."

"Ma'am." Montoya just about dragged me into the F150 'n threw me in, 'n fuck he could move fast, and the rest of the team weren't too far behind. "Move it," he barked at the driver. "Stay outa line of sight of the waterfront."

"Okay, runners," I barked myself when Montoya had us pull up, 'n I piled out real fast. Still didn't have enough radios so we were using fucking runners.

"Ma'am."

"Orders for Bravo. I want those fucking holdouts taken down before those UN assholes decide to try it on. I want 'em taken down fast, no prisoners, no survivors, use everything we got 'n tell Reilly I don't give a fuck if I know what he's got or not, just tell him I said to fucking use it. Alpha to move in and support Bravo 'soon as they get here 'n tell Kratman to move his lazy ass." Not that Kratman was lazy. Far from it, and he'd get the joke.

Reilly, commanding Bravo, he was a gung ho old son of a bitch 'n I knew he had some toys tucked away for a rainy day. I knew when that runner reached him coz I was watching from the ground, looking through about a one inch gap between the brick wall of the building I was almost all behind, and a concrete barrier that'd been dumped real convenient. Yeah, Reilly was an on the ball son of a bitch 'n I knew he had a few little extras tucked away he hadn't told me about 'n I didn't mind one bit.

Initiative's always a good thing, that's what Brad told me way back when.

Initiative was, and I smiled, coz Reilly sure lived up to expectations.

Dude actually surprised me, 'n that was a surprise in itself.

A dozen rockets erupted from street corners facing that old warehouse and as soon as they were fired, they were slamming into that building the ratdogs were holed up in. Saw them slam into that brick wall facing the street and explode, and I knew. AT4's. No idea where the fuck Reilly'd found 'em, but they sure did the job.

Did it real well, 'n watching, I smiled.

AT4's? You don't know what an AT4 is? Guess they're old and out of date now, museum pieces, but back then, well, they weren't state of the art but they were good 'n they didn't have any electronics so they still worked real good, where a lot of the modern stuff 'd been fried by the EMP bombs early on. Single shot rocket, Swedish, designed back in the days before the Swedish Caliphate, and yeah, we'd settle those fuckers one of these days. Settle 'em real good.

High explosive warhead and yeah, thousands of 'em lying around in armouries around the country coz we'd used them in the sandbox against the ragheads. Those old AT4's flamed out, and yeah, they were oldies with fuck all range, couple of hundred yards if you needed accuracy, but they were anti-tank and anti-fortification weapons 'n those HEAT warheads, they just blew right through the brick walls of that old office warehouse combo and the red glare as they exploded was like the fucking fourth of July in the old days when I was a kid and they still did stuff for the fourth of July.

Bricks and bodies flew in all directions, 'n Reilly had the grenade launchers working overtime putting grenades through those new holes 'n the windows 'n it really was like the fourth of fucking July, and I laughed out loud, coz those ratdogs were totally fucked.

"Sniper and flamethrower teams up," I yelled over my shoulder to Lieutenant Richards. "I don't want anyone getting outa there alive." I grinned, 'n yeah, I felt real alive now. "We're gonna burn the ratdogs out. No prisoners. No survivors."

Not that there ever were when we ran into holdouts like these. We might talk 'em out, if they believed us, coz they were easier to terminate after they surrendered and we got 'em out in the open, but it didn't really matter. They all went into the ditches one way or the other. These ones weren't gonna get as far as the ditches.

The sniper teams were fanning out, jogging around the backs of the buildings, up stairs, finding windows and rooftops to fire from, spreading out, and another runner was on her way to Reilly, but he was on the ball. Old dude, grey-haired, been in the Army in the Sandbox and the 'Stans way back when and you didn't need to hold his hand 'n the sniper rounds were already cracking out.

Ratdogs disappearing from sight as I watched, 'n the windows were mostly just holes now, no return fire to speak of, and round the waterfront side, same thing was probably happening 'n I didn't need to check.

"Assault Teams forward," I called back to Richards, 'n Jacobs was on the radio now.

A sudden burst of machinegun 'n rifle fire, and I took a quick look. Bunch of ratdogs 'd made a run for it out the main entrance, and they were all over the sidewalk now. None of 'em made it as far as the the road and a few were still moving. Single shots cracked out 'n they stopped, and from inside I could hear wailing 'n screaming. Woman came out real hesitantly, waving some sort of white, white shirt on a stick and what the fuck?

Really?

"Let her come forward," I called out, 'n Covington relayed the order in a bellow that just about deafened me, 'n Jacobs relayed it on the radio. No need really, we'd done this so many times, 'n I just watched as she hesitated, then walked out real slowly into the middle of the street, waving that white shirt like it was some magic talisman.

Behind her, more women, teenagers, a few kids, girls and boys both, then more, they trickled out. No men, and I guess they weren't that stupid, and we waited. Waited until no more came out.

"Children first." One of Reilly's men on a loudspeaker. "Children ten and under only, cross the street, hands in the air."

Coz whatever the ratdogs said, we didn't deliberately kill kids. They'd die if they stayed with the adults, but kids were the exception to the rule. Get them young and you could re-educate them, even if they came from criminal backgrounds. Mostly. That's what we were told anyhow. There were the ferals, and yeah, the ones that'd been so brainwashed that it was obvious they were irrecoverable, it was a kindness to put them down and we did, but even that we did quietly, they never knew it was coming. Not like the ratdogs. Those bastards enjoyed killing the kids in front of their parents.

"Over here," and a hand was waving, 'n those kids filed around the corner and I knew Reilly's girls would be sorting them and there'd probably be a few older ones but I always let them pass. Year or two, what the fuck. Searching them, coz sometimes you got some brainwashed little kid holding a grenade or something, 'n yeah, when they got to that stage, no choice. You shot the little fucker and everyone with them coz there was no way to tell if the others were infected or not, and better safe than sorry.

These ones disappeared without a peep, 'n I guess they were all clean. The women, the teenagers, they waited in the street, hands in the air, and I guess they were hoping it'd be their turn soon.

Yeah, we'd get to their turn..

"Now," Covington bellowed, 'n they knew they were shit outa luck as the bullets tore into them and they went down, gouting blood, screaming, flopping on the road, dying the way they always died, and it didn't take long. Save us the trouble of trucking them to the ditches 'n putting them down, 'n one of the work crews could clean up the bodies later, when we were done.

"You evil fascist bastards," some young dude screamed, 'n he was running out the doorway, M16 at the hip, spraying bullets everywhere 'n he must've been watching too many jihadi movies on Utube back when or something. Double tap through the chest from one of the snipers and he was down. Didn't even do the chicken dance, just flopped, 'n someone took a headshot to make sure.

You always made sure.

"Anyone else wanna make it easy for us," Reilly's loudspeaker bellowed. "Come on out 'n make our day."

No takers, 'n that was hardly surprising when you think about what'd just happened. You'd have to be dumber than a ratdog to try that one again, what with the bodies all over the street.

"Now ma'am?" Richards asked, 'n he was beside me.

"Yeah, use the satchel charges and flamethrowers," I said. "Nothing else comes out of this one alive," 'n Richards relayed the orders.

Steady bursts of fire, grenades from the M203's arcing through the shattered windows and gaping holes in the brickwork, 'n whatever those ratdog holdouts were doing inside that building, they weren't shooting back anymore.

Me, I lay there watching as four teams of four raced forwards across the street under that suppression fire. On those teams of four, two were riflemen, M16's or M4's. One carried a double satchel charge, twenty pounds of C4 in two small cloth bags, tied together with fuse and an igniter. The fourth carried a flamethrower, the tank on his back and they were old, Vietnam War stuff that we'd dug up out of an old armoury, decades old, hadn't been scrapped and we only had a couple of dozen but they'd proved useful over the past few months for this type of work.

Today, well, they were gonna be useful again, and we'd done this so many times it was a well-rehearsed drill.

The riflemen fired as they ran, short bursts through the windows and holes directly ahead of them and from behind them, the buildings across the other side of the street, more covering fire was being laid down, 'n the guys knew what they were doing. Should do, we'd been doing this for over a year now.

They hit the wall, backs against it and the riflemen reached for the grenades on their webbing,unhooked them, armed them, pulled the pins, released the spoons, waited for that count, one thousand and one, one thousand and two, coz you didn't want them coming back, then tossed them through the windows beside them. Explosions rang out, smoke, fragments of wood and brick and glass sprayed outwards, more than a few screams and the ratdogs must've been moving men down to counter the attack they were expecting 'n yeah, well, good idea maybe. Bad execution.

Soon as the grenades had gone off, the flamethrower men stepped back half a dozen paces, long nozzles coming up, long tongues of orange flame arching up and in through the gaping holes and shattered windows and the screaming from inside suddenly intensified into frenzied shrieks that went on and on and on, and inside, the flames grew with the screams.

Tanks empty, the flamethrower men turned and raced back across the street to their starting points, still covered by that withering suppressive fire. Now came the satchel charges, the fuses ignited, taking the strap holding the charges, twisting and then swing the charges wide, up and in through the windows, then turning to run together now with the riflemen, and watching, I counted, and the blasts began right on the mark.

Blasts, shockwaves, waves of flame inside the building, smoke pouring up now, flames everywhere and I smiled, coz a couple of hundred ratdogs were getting a taste of hell, and the screams were loud now, loud and shrill, more of them than there'd been before and there was the odd shot from inside. Not at us, and I smiled coz they were starting to shoot themselves, and I was laughing and crying as a flaming humanoid shape, arms and legs flapping frantically, plunged from a window.

It dropped four stories to the pavement below, flapping and twisting and burning all the way, and even from where I was, I could hear that wet slapping thud and I was sure that weird noise had been it trying to scream from a burning throat, and then there was another, and another, and I prayed for them to stop, to just die where I couldn't see them.

Flames everywhere, the entire building a mass of flames, and the shots cracked out, a continuous staccato chatter of single shots and short bursts as ratdogs tried to escape, but nobody was coming out of there alive. I watched as one tried to climb out a second floor window and a shot threw him back inside, hurling him back into the furnace, and the screams didn't last for long.

A lone figure emerged, running out of the flames that filled the gaping entrance and how it'd made it through those flames to get out, I had no idea, coz it was a furnace in there. What ran out onto the street was a blackened caricature of a man, somehow turning and running straight towards me and I stood, swung my 1911 up, fired, and for once I fucking missed coz I was just totally fucking horrified that it was alive and still moving 'n bullets were sparking all around it but it had the luck of the damned.

Blackened hands clawed towards me as it ran into the concrete barrier, charred and blackened hands showing white bone that scrabbled at the concrete, a blackened and featureless face, soft as a tar baby's, split by a blackened opening surrounded by white teeth, screaming a horrible bubbling scream, red cracks appearing through the charred surface of what'd been a face, and the things eyeballs had melted and they were running down it's face in thick gelatinous tears.

It was trying to climb the concrete barrier, face to face with me, and I screamed, screamed and pushed the muzzle at it's chest and pulled the trigger as blackened flesh fell away and red showed beneath. Pulled the trigger again and again until it went down, and then Montoya was there, putting a bullet through it's head and those burbling screams of agony stopped.

Mine continued, on and on and my trigger clicked again and again until I stopped and dropped the mag, slammed in a reload and I was screaming as I brought my 1911 up with a round up the spout now.

"Lieutenant Reilly," Montoya bellowed, and I heard him through the screams and the charred thing that filled my vision with my eyes closed tight, and it screamed in my head, a choked bubbling scream that went on and on and on, and I screamed. Screamed, and it was inside my head and I couldn't shoot it down, not inside my head, but maybe I could shoot myself and then it'd go, and Montoya's hand grabbed my wrist in a grip of steel and he took my 1911 from me and slid it into his pocket.

"Lieutenant Reilly," Montoya called, and I heard the "Yo, Sergeant Montoya," that came back.

"Captain needs to return to the headshed," Montoya called. "You're in charge here, okay," 'n there was that pause, and then the "Okay, got it," and Montoya relaxed a little but he still held me real tight.

"This way ma'am, let's get you outa here," Montoya said, and I think I was walking. I was moving anyhow, stumbling, Ramon just about carrying me, and I was in the back of the F150 and the medic, Stafford, she was on the other side in the back seat and she was checking me over 'n I was shaking, shaking and that thing, it was in my head, and it wouldn't leave, and those choked off bubbling screams of agony inside my head continued, on and on.

"Fuck," Stafford said, 'n beside me she was shaking almost as much as I was. "I've seen some bad stuff, but that was fucking awful."

"Wasn't good," Montoya said, and he still had his arm around me, holding me tight and I pressed my face into his shoulder, coz the warmth and the sweat and just him, holding me, it helped. "Take a drink of this ma'am," and that little hip flask he carried tucked away pressed against my lips, and I did.

Heat, warm fire, and it brought me back, shaking me loose from the monster inside my head and I blinked, blinked and shivered and clung to him for a second longer.

"B-b-b-b-back t-t-t-t-to t-t-t-the h-h-h-h-h-headshed, M-M-M-Montoya," I said, a couple of seconds later, and I was still shivering but by the time we got back, I was back in control and nobody said a thing.

Wasn't the first time, and nobody ever said a thing.

Like it never happened. Maybe it hadn't.

Maybe it was just a nightmare.

Maybe it wasn't.

"What're those UN ships out in the Bay up to?" I asked Maddock, soon as I walked through the door and she'd moved the headshed, left Wylie and the radios back where we were with a landline and Montoya, he'd handed me back my 1911 without a word and I'd holstered it without a word.

"Nothing much," Maddock said. "They were talking to those ratdogs but their coms went 'n doesn't seem like they can make up their mind what to do.... Wait one, Ma'am." And she was on the radio, nodding.

Looked up. "Buildings collapsed, ma'am. Reilly says no-one else got out, he's started searching the surrounding buildings."

I nodded. "Tell Echo and Charlie to spread out along the waterfront. I want eyes on those UN turkeys in case they try on anything overnight. Alpha in reserve, Bravo start clearing along the waterfront, hold in place when the sun goes down, start again first light. Have the cooks send down MRE's."

"What about the pen, Ma'am. Delta's tied up there."

"How many we got?"

"Two hundred sixty," Mendoza looked up.

"Start bringing 'em in," I said. "We'll process 'em now, get them outa the way before dark. I want Delta in reserve just in case. We got any trucks to move the keepers?"

"Six, ma'am," Mendoza said. "Two Transport Company, they were gonna overnight with us but they can move 'em out tonight."

"Let's do it," I said, taking the hotdog that Montoya handed me and chowing down. For once I felt fucking hungry, and it tasted real good with that Nando's peri-peri sauce we'd picked up from that place on Spear Street. "Start bringing 'em in."

"Jesus," I said, and I was just fucking exhausted. Processed them all in four hours. One a fucking minute and yeah, snap decisions but you had to do it and I always tried to give 'em the benefit of the doubt. Mostly it was dead simple. You could tell a ratdog real easy. Those tats, the attitude, the clothes even, membership cards 'n stuff. Anyone shopped in Walmart, likely they were ours. Stuff like that. Sure I made mistakes now and then, but what the fuck. Make an omelette, break eggs.

"Trucks 're leaving, ma'am." Brown stuck her head in, n' yeah, that was a weight of my shoulders. Sent fifty to the ditch, hundred on the trucks and released the other hundred, sent a squad to march 'em over to the assignment center. Not my responsibility now. Got 'em off my hands and that meant one less thing to think about tomorrow and I had Delta in reserve now.