Chronicles of War
Part 1: Way of the Storm
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"After this Job opened his mouth and cursed the day of his birth"
- Job 3:00
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Chapter 5: Plan? What Plan?
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James stopped before the maw-like entrance to Sears. The massive store
had an entry-way fifteen feet wide, with the establishment's name posted
overhead in glowing blue letters. Inside, racks of clothing went on
almost endlessly, and a central counter held the delicacies of dressing
up--perfume and jewelry primarily. He sneered at the sight.
Sears was where real men went for tools. They looked here for Craftsman
and Makita, not CK and Levis, though Levis were arguably nice to find in
the same general building at the latest in table saws.
"Fuck," Commented James.
"What?" Asked Ed.
"Footprints. They're probably military, given the weight."
"What?" Ed squinted at the near-invisible smudges on the floor.
"Prints from boots. Mil-spec footwear. As in mercenaries or United
States military. These guys aren't amateurs," James said with a note of
authority in his voice.
"And you would know this, how?" Persisted Ed.
"And we should have some gum."
"Gum?!"
"Yes. It's all this very American idea, you see. One must have gum to
kick ass."
Ed did a double-take, though he really didn't want to, and asked the
question that had been burning on his mind. "You left for college to
become an engineer, right James?"
"Right on." James said.
"Did you take make sojourn into the military to pay for your student
loans or something?"
"No, Ed. I just know these things. Now, on to find out the mettle of our
mysterious foes...." With that, James walked into the store, leaving Ed
gasping like a beached fish. "Oh, Ed." He called over his shoulder,
"Don't get killed in here, pal. I hate watching friends die."
Ed stared at James' back, his mind spinning. Now why did that nut-case
have to go and say something like that?
----------
Once inside the store, Ed found a nice sniping position. Although he was
at ground level, he was well hidden and had a nice view of a good
portion of the store. It saddened him greatly that the once proud home
of tool guys everywhere had reduced itself to whoring lingerie, but
truth be told, clothes made better cover than box end wrenches.
James had wandered into the store with his gun drawn. Ed couldn't
imagine how the man did it, but James was able to walk across a linoleum
floor without making a sound. He was wearing a huge pair of leather work
boots; that man should have sounded like a small army striding around in
those clod-hoppers. They were loud in the mall, but it was almost like
James could simply will his boots to be quiet whenever he wished.
Unnerving.
As for Ed, he was quite happy to sit back and shoot any unpleasant folks
who got to close to him. James was brimming with confidence as he
stalked into the store, the aura of a hunter closing in on its helpless
prey was unmistakable. Leave the bad guys to him, Ed thought. He can
handle them.
----------
James was well out of Ed's view now, moving to the opposite side of the
store. Sears had a roughly square floor plan, with a large cross-shaped
divider at the center of the store. Four foot wide walkways drew paths
around the entire store; clothing and unmentionables at one end,
hardware and car stuff at the other.
James was focused entirely on the task at hand now, ignoring outside
distractions. At nine this morning, he would not have imagined that by
ten fifteen he would be hunting down terrorists in his old high school
haunt. In fact, that hour he would not have been imagining very much at
all--James was not a morning person.
At the moment he was wide awake, but not as observant as he should have
been.
"Hey you! Hands up!" Someone shouted.
James froze.
"Don't move a fucking inch!" The voice continued.
"If you insis--" James began.
"Don't talk!"
James ignored the man's advice. He couldn't see who was behind him, but
the hard, gruff voice and crude language were a dead giveaway in his
book. "So you must be the doomed mercenary."
The man almost had time to say "huh?" but James was far too fast to let
him. In the less time than it took for the man to blink, James had
stepped outside of the merc's cone of fire and punched his elbow out.
The blow had a huge amount of force behind it, and was delivered with
such speed that the man's arm suddenly bent backward at the vulnerable
joint with an audible *crunch*.
James did not slow his assault. He rammed his handgun into the man's
throat, crushing his larynx with a single brutal strike, using his
pistol like a battering ram. As the mercenary began to topple over,
mouth working wordlessly, James cocked the MP5 he now held. It was a
nice weapon, and had been held by the mercenary about a half of a second
ago. James ignored the rest of the man's death throes, calmly walking
away as if enjoying a stroll outdoors.
He was a dozen steps away when the merc's body hit the floor.
At that moment, bullets sprayed wildly through the store. James was
already flattened on the floor, and crawled off the main walkway. His
brain noted there was a group of table saws and drill presses stacked
all around him. Heavy iron, which could be useful as a shield of some
kind. Back to the display pieces, he moved down the isle in a crouch,
wary of more gunfire.
At the end of the isle, a hulking man with a bushy black beard and beady
black appeared. He didn't appear in the literal sense, but moved quietly
and with a dangerous ease into James' vision. He was light on his feet
for someone so large, and he wore a black Battle Dress Uniform (BDU),
with no markings. James noticed the figure instantly and shot the man
twice in the chest with the MP5.
He holstered his pistol, figuring the MP5 would be better for a long-
range engagement, and held his ground.
Then the big guy woke up. James stared. "Huh? Oh, bullet proof vest."
Someone grabbed him from behind in a bear hug, the sudden and unexpected
pressure forcing the breath from his lungs in a whoosh. The big man was
off the floor in a flash, ready to pound James to the consistency of
oatmeal.
James fired the MP5. Amazingly, he didn't hit himself, the bullets
ricocheting off the concrete and tile floor and hitting the man holding
him. The big guy was right there, slamming his fist into James' gut.
Dropping the MP5, he retaliated with a head-butt that left him dizzy.
Shaking his head, he finally felt the hands fall away from him, but the
large mercenary was throwing another punch at him, smiling sadistically
through nicotine-stained teeth.
James watched impassively as the fist hit him square in the face.
Seemingly satisfied, the merc moved back a bit while James spit out a
nice wad of warm blood. He looked to his left to find a shotgun trained
on him by another merc. Behind him, the fool who'd grabbed him in a
bear-hug was writhing on the floor in pain.
It appeared he had a fight on his hands. The large merc has kicked away
James' new automatic weapon. If he wanted it back, he'd have to go
through the man. He still had his handgun stuffed into his jeans, but
thankfully his large shirt hung over it, covering his ace in the hole.
*Excellent.* James thought, supressing the urge to smirk as the big one
moved in to render James a mass of bruises wrapped around a pile of
broken bones.
James caught the next fist head his direction with one hand. The second
he countered with his own punch, smashing the large mercenary's fingers
out of place with a single blow. He then grabbed the man and laid him
flat on the nearest table, flicking the switch to the 'on' position in
the blink of an eye. As the motor started spinning up the ten-inch
carbide blade, the man with the shotgun started screaming obscenities.
The big one didn't dare struggle to get free; James' hand was the only
thing holding his head clear of that spinning blade.
The merc with the shotgun was ordering James to stop, his speech overrun
with a string of rapid-fire obscenities. James looked at him blankly, as
if he couldn't hear the man right. The merc waved his shotgun up and
down, indicating that James should release his friend.
James pointed at the captured mercenary, a questioning look on his face.
The merc with the shotgun nodded.
James shrugged and let go of the man's head.
Shotgun boy proved his fatal lack of IQ points by stepping too close to
James in his hurry to aid his friend. James casually stepped in his
guard, slapped the shotgun aside, and kneed the man in the groin so hard
that his feet were lifted clean off the ground.
Of course, the bastard was wearing a cup. James threw him roughly into
his recovering comrade, pausing to note that both the punk's shotgun and
his pilfered MP5 lay between him and the two mercs.
He then concentrated on rubbing his bruised kneecap.
The merc on the floor, bleeding to death as he watched the fight with
awe, had pulled out his own MP5, and was pointing it nowhere near James'
position.
The engineer turned away from his opponents. His back to the mercs, he
popped his neck from side to side and rotated his shoulders. He spat out
a bit more blood, then spoke in a commanding voice.
"Again."
The smaller mercenary pulled himself to his feet, staring at the James,
and turned off the table saw. The bigger mercenary put his injured hand
at his side and felt the back of his head. His fingers came away bloody,
but it was only a superficial wound.
The two guns lay on the floor between the fighters. James remained
motionless.
The two mercenaries drew themselves up and looked at one another. A
simple understanding was passing through the assembled, a kind of
psychic exchange that few people would understand: Round two had begun.
They took deep breaths at the same time and charged James.
After the deep intake of breath, but before starting an all-out scream
to spook James as they committed themselves to a straight charge at the
engineer, James made his move. The pistol was in his hand in a flash and
he gunned down the two mercenaries before they could take a single step.
The big man stopped with a single hole in the middle of his forehead,
the younger man missing his throat. Blood sprayed across the tools
behind them in a crimson, and they collapsed uncerimonously to the
ground.
James tucked his gun back into his jeans casually.
That was when the mercenary on the floor realized that James had not
even _turned_around_ to shoot.
"I know that's quite anti-climatic, but it's just my way of doing things.
Now tell me please, who are you working for?"
The mercenary also noticed that his hands were shaking. Everything was
growing cold. Had the man really said that? It was... it was insane! It
was like witchcraft! No one could be so fast! He tried to speak, but
everything was so far away, the floor so cold. He couldn't even hold his
gun up... didn't have the strength to pull the trigger.
James frowned and continued asked his question again. "Are you dying on
me? I asked a goddamn question. Now WHO are you WORKING for?"
No answer.
"HELLO? Must I torture my--" James grabbed the body, shaking it, before
realizing his mistake. "--ayyiyiyi... you're dead.... Dammit."
A new voice interrupted his muttering about fragile people wielding
innappropriate firepower. "Maybe. From here he just looks unconscious.
Now put your fuckin' hands up."
James looked up to see another mercenary, the all-American kid with blue
eyes and a mustache. "You guys should quit doing that. You want to be
police officers? If you're going to point a goddamn gun at me, you'd
better be planning to kill me." James said.
"Later, perhaps. Your hands?" The man said conversationally.
James did as requested, keeping his eyes locked on the mercenary.
"Better. Now let's see if we can't get you on your knees."
"Doubtful." James supplied.
The man shot James in the leg. James immediately went to his knees, his
hands clawed in pain. "Ow... ungghhh... you FUCKER!" James shouted.
"Better. Keep your hands up."
James was hyper-ventilating and his hands were grasping in the air. He
was on his knees but looked like he would simply topple over at any
moment. His eyes worked there way slowly from the floor to meet the
mercenary's gaze, burning with hatred.
The mercenary smirked, still keeping his eyes on James. Despite the loss
of three, maybe all four of the men under his command, the day was
looking up. The target was all but captured, and he didn't like other
four idiots very much anyway. Then he looked a little more closely at
the scene. There was a huge puddle of blood around Davis--the poor
bastard had taken a round to a major artery. There was something tied
around his leg, but the man had either been to shocked or too distracted
to perform any proper first aid. Either he was dead or not far from it.
What looked wrong by comparison was the target. The man wasn't bleeding.
Wasn't bleeding?!
The merc's eyes flicked straight up to watch James' face more closely.
He saw only a blur of color and instinctively fired off a shot. His eyes
kept moving up, following movement in his peripheral vision.
James jumped straight up and was several feet in the air. With the moves
of an expert gymnast, he had gone from crouch to jump like a coiled
spring, his gun drawn with inhuman speed. Even as the merc tracked him,
it was too late--James was already firing.
James landed on the ground, again in a crouch, his breath coming in
deep, quick gasps. He hadn't been shot through the leg, but there would
still be a nice scab and a good-sized bruise on his leg by the evening
thanks to the bullet's passage across a chunk of his skin. 'Missed by a
hair,' so to speak. He cursed the merc's luck under his breath. That had
really scared him. All this fighting in the open couldn't be good for
his health.
The mercenary lay dying just a few feet away.
----------
The rest of the store was empty. Between isles filled with wrenches and
drills and saws, among a small field of brand new lawn mowers and
shelves of house paint, nothing. Through racks of shirts, shorts, pants,
ties, and lingerie, James found no other hint of the enemy. No more
black-clad men with guns and bad attitudes out for his blood.
The young one he'd shot in the leg was still out cold and fading fast.
James hoped he could get some information out of the lad before he died,
but a quick search of the area was a necessity. It galled him that there
was not enough time to set up some kind of perimeter. If another squad
of these... terrorists? Mercenaries, he decided, had sneaked in while he
was sight seeing....
Once the coast was clear, James made a bee-line for Ed's hiding spot,
offering a bloodied hand to the man to get him back on his feet. Ed took
the hand with a strange look.
"Are we panicking?" James asked, grinning.
"We are wetting our fucking pants." Ed said with a sigh of relief. "Who
was shooting everywhere?"
"That was me." James said sheepishly. "These guys have MP5s, but most of
'em just wanted to strangle me to death or something. Nasty folks, but
there's one still alive. I'm hoping we can question him."
James finished his explanation and looked into the distance, his eyes
settling in the direction of the downed soldiers. His face was tight and
grim, his eyes holding recognition of something old and hated.
Ed stared at James for several moments, not daring to move; scarcely
daring to breath. *Still alive?* He was thinking. *Did James just kill a
bunch of terrorists?*
His brain couldn't leave the idea It kept circling around his sub-
conscious, like a skipping record. James killing people. James killing
people. James killing people. Like a mantra. Asking himself _why_ wasn't
a serious search for answer, it was a jolt to get his system off of the
observation and onto the analysis.
"So who were they? The terrorists?" Ed asked.
"No." Said James, his voice gravely certain of his judgment. "They were
mercenaries; former United State Marine Corps and Army Special Forces
soldiers."
"That's preposterous!" Ed yelled, after his eyes had returned to their
normal size. He was now staring at James with a look usually reserved
for people who are about to spend the rest of their lives in a padded
room that is locked from the outside. "Besides, how can you tell?"
James was on his feet and walking towards the site of his first
confrontation before he answered. Ed scrambled to keep up. "Three
things, Ed. One, their fighting style. Two, their precision with
weapons. Three, a wild hunch."
The hunch was James' style, hard core. But the other two? "What about
their fighting style?"
"They tried to take me alive and they didn't start with their weapons.
Blatantly stupid, which is where the hunch comes in, but the fact
remains that they fought with a military martial art based heavily on
ju-jitsu." James stopped, looking down at a large puddle of blood on the
floor. "Second, they handled weapons like well-trained experts, which
would make them cops or military. We've already covered fighting style;
the cops use something completely different." He finished lamely,
kneeling on the tile walkway.
"This is where it happened?" Ed asked after a few seconds of silence.
James looked at an overturned and bloody table saw. He glanced the
tangled mess of cords, and took in the utter absence of any dead bodies
in the area. "Yep. This is the place."
"Where are the bodies?" Ed asked rhetorically.
"Well, they probably aren't pulling a 'Night of the Living Dead' on us,
so I'd wager someone made off with them." James said
This was insane. This was crazy. *This is _not_ what I signed up for!*
Ed was thinking. The whole situation was stinky and suspicious from the
get-go. *A security guard asked to help some... some... _engineer_, of
all people, hold off a bunch of terrorist? And why the fuck was I also
supposed to look after a bunch of bombs?! If those things went off,
James would be blamed for....*
Enter logical argument #1. It was a simple set-up, really. A little bomb
threat to get your target into the mall, then set off the bombs while
proclaiming that the guy did it as a sacrificial act, like those suicide
bombers in the middle east.
No, that didn't quite fit. What if someone caught the gist of the
conversation? Besides, most people were total pansies... which made Ed
really wonder why James willingly walked into this mess. There was more
here than James was saying--way, _way_ more.
Enter logical argument #2. The setup was design to get their target into
the mall for either execution or capture. Paint James as the bad guy...
but what was the motivation?
Ed was not sure he wanted to find out. but he pressed on. "Wait a
minute. When we got in here, I asked if you went to school to become an
engineer."
James thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I did."
"What college did you go to?"
"University of Reno, Nevada. Didn't much like the place, and I tried to
stay away from the college lifers, but I did my time and got my degree.
Why, do you want to see my credentials now or something?"
"But you weren't in the military?" Ed continued as if James had not even
spoken.
James looked at Ed, his eyes narrowing. "No, I was not. Don't like it
much, you see. What are you driving at?"
"James," Ed said, his voice low and dangerous. "Why the fuck do you know
so much about the military, then?"
"I read a lot. A whole lot. I have volumes of military info crammed into
my brain that, until today, has been useful only to impress girls and
maybe win obscure contests. I must note, however, that I have not
entered any of these hypothetical contests, so apart from saving my ass
today, said knowledge has had little more than entertainment value." He
glared accusingly at Ed for a moment before adding, "And why would you
care about my military knowledge?"
Satisfied with James' meandering explanation, Ed answered his old
friend's question. "Because this is whole day is FUBAR."
"Wanted to see how deep the rabbit hole went, huh? I can understand.
Now, we have one last problem to deal with." James said.
The quizzical on Ed's face lasted from exactly 'rabbit hole' to 'last
problem.'
"The bombs?" Ed asked.
James nodded. "The bombs."
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