Action/Thriller

Date Published: Feb 7, 2021

Publisher: The Unseeing Eye

A man is running for his life. An army is deployed to hunt him down. He has no right to be there, he has no right to live. He is not considered human.

A man is on a mission. He is looking for the hunted, for those denied humanity. He is trying to save them, to deliver them to safety, to give them a chance of life.

The year is 2058. The world’s powers have stabilised, the citizens of the newly formed super-states are living in peace and prosperity. But when safety is a privilege of the fortunate, liberty is a radical idea. For those born on the wrong side of the wall surrounding the Federated States of Europe, the price of privilege is unimaginably high.

When fate brings the two men together, they struggle against time, hostile forces and their own prejudices, towards a conclusion, neither of them would have thought possible.

DIRE REDEMPTION

Ishmael O. Ross

(excerpt)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Dedications

“By the end of 2016, nearly 5.2 million refugees and migrants reached European shores, undertaking treacherous journeys from countries torn apart by war and persecution.”

(USA for UNHCR, Refugee Crisis in Europe)

“By the end of 2017, 68.5 million individuals were forcibly displaced worldwide as a result of persecution,
conflict, violence or human rights violations.”

(USA for UNHCR, Refugee Facts)

The Italian sea rescue operation Mare Nostrum, which had saved thousands of displaced people from drowning in the Mediterranean Sea, officially ended in October 2014.

In October 2015, Hungary erected a four-metre-tall barbed-wire fence along its southern border to stop the flow of refuge seekers.

Between 2013 and 2019, at least 18,600 people died on their way to Europe while searching for safety, many of them women and unaccompanied children.

This book is dedicated to their memory.
May they rest in peace.

Chapter Two

HEY WERE WEAK, half-starved and exhausted after the weeks-long journey through wastelands and strange forests, through abandoned villages, and burned-out towns. Only the weather turning colder every day reminded him that they were no longer in Africa. They had met no people on their way. The few they had seen had run away long before they could make contact, or ask any questions. They ate what they could find, and whatever the strange forests provided, but it was scarce, barely enough to keep them going. They never stopped, only for a short rest every once in a while. The land of promise was there, must be there, they had only to find it, to endure a little longer, maybe one more day, maybe two.

When the smugglers had brought them to the shore in life-boats, they had shown them a general direction then abandoned them in the cold night. The people had been confused and directionless, but they had stayed together and begun walking. Jonas and Moses had stuck together ever since then, with a few younger men clinging to their sides like an entourage.

By the time they had arrived at the wall, there were only the six of them left. The others had either given up, seeking refuge in the ruins of abandoned buildings or died of starvation and exhaustion along the way. Those who had stayed behind could not be persuaded to move on, and Jonas was sure they would die out there, alone, in the cold wilderness, as the weather was turning against them day by day. He pressed on among the more determined few, not wasting effort to try and save those who wanted to be left alone. It was their choice, and Jonas had made his own too. He chose to live and to live well, and free. It was only a question of getting to Europe.

Looking at the wall now he thought that must be it. A place as well guarded as that must be rich. The people on the other side seemed to have much to protect. He could not understand what they defended themselves from; there was nothing in the forest to threaten anyone. Perhaps the war reached this far, or maybe slavers were coming in to take the people, like they had in Africa. Either way, the wall itself was reassuring in a way, promising safety and protection for those on the inside. It was only a matter of getting through somehow.

There were no doors, no gates, nor any other entrance; the wall was seemingly endless, continuing well into the darkness in both directions. Jonas was contemplating moving a little farther, to see if there was any chance they could gain entry, when Moses beside him broke the silence.

“We climb.”

That was all he said, and nobody argued. Jonas knew he was right, that the shortest way was straight in, that if they tried to find a point of entry they might be stuck on the wrong side for days or even weeks, without food or shelter. He knew he probably would not survive that. Maybe some of the younger men would, but not him. He was too weak to even think about it.

They chose a spot halfway between two watchtowers that were some distance away, far enough that they could not see if there were people behind the dimly lit windows, and Jonas was sure they would not be seen either. The darkness and the distance were on their side.

The wall looked as tall as three men, but as the outside was pockmarked and rough, he could find foot and handholds easily enough. Every muscle in his body protested at once when he pulled himself up. He felt faint, his hands threatened to let go, but he climbed on with the last of his strength. He knew he would scale that wall if it cost him his life. He pressed on, grunting, wanting to scream out loud, but he was too afraid to make a sound.

Twice his toes slipped, and his hands were chafed on the rough concrete as he tried to hold himself up. His fingers ached, his arms went numb. He stopped for a breather, looked up, and saw that he had cleared most of the height. A little more effort, then. Glancing to his right, he saw Moses climbing a few metres away, while one of the younger ones had almost reached the top. Jonas smiled. We will make it.

There was a yell and a thud as one of the climbers fell. The young man dropped from a great height and now lay on his back, moaning. Jonas was beginning to wonder if the man could ever get up again, and if it would be wise to go back and try to help him, when the searchlights lit up. Blinding white light flooded the wall, and suddenly the climbers projected long black shadows, criss-crossing under them in two directions. Then a gunshot rang out, and the moaning stopped. Jonas looked down. Half of the fallen man’s head had been turned into a pool of blood.

Then another shot rang out, and the adolescent boy who had almost reached the top, fell without a sound, hit the ground, and never moved again. Jonas screamed and started pulling himself upwards as fast as he could. He heard another shot. Another man fell. He pressed on harder, Moses panting beside him. He’s still breathing then.

One of Jonas’s fingernails broke, but he never noticed it. He tried to pull, but his shoulder gave out, red-hot pain stabbing his left arm and his back. He let go with one hand, hanging by his right and felt his feet starting to slip, when a bullet burrowed itself into the concrete, just where his head had been a moment ago. He tried to lift his left arm, but there was only more pain. He grunted with a low gurgling sound that rose into a roar as he raised his arm, pushing through the pain, and grabbed the new handhold the burrowing bullet had made in the wall’s surface.

He pulled. Jonas wasn’t sure he was getting anywhere, but he pulled again. The world blurred, he felt like throwing up, but his empty stomach only produced acid. He pulled again, pushing with his feet. He heard a sound like a bullet bouncing off a wall near his head, but he no longer paid attention to it.

Another gunshot was followed by another thud as a body hit the ground below. Jonas pulled harder then, reaching up, he felt a ledge. He pulled with all his strength, pushed up with his right foot and tried to move his body over the top. For a long moment he hung there, half way between the top of the wall and falling; between salvation and certain death. He glanced down and saw four unmoving bodies. Then, with a last effort, he pulled himself up and lay on the top of the wall, shaded from the searchlight, panting.

He heard a rustle from one side. Raising his head, he saw Moses not far from him, trying to crouch up from his prone position, while still staying in the shadows. Jonas collected his remaining strength and got up as well, keeping his body folded and his head low. He felt the duress that had given him the strength to climb melt away, and his body began to tremble. Jonas smiled. Almost there. Moses looked at him, and nodded, the same approving nod he had once given Jonas on the boat, which now seemed a lifetime ago. Jonas nodded back, still smiling. Moses’s lips began to curl up too, when new searchlights lit the top of the wall, flooding them with a white glare. They leapt down at the same time.

It was a long drop, and Jonas rolled on his back when he reached the ground until he came to a halt. His legs ached, his left ankle was in pain. He had hit his head, and the world became a blur. He could faintly see Moses get up and limp away, disappearing into the shadows without looking behind. Jonas realised he was on his own now.

Then there was a short burst of rapid gunfire. Jonas strained his eyes, trying to see if Moses had got away, but he could only see the motionless darkness, contrasting with the sharp beams of searchlights as they swept across the black grass. He pressed his trembling body against the stone wall as tightly as he could and dared not move. He lay low to make sure the lights did not follow him. He tried to be as still as he could, holding his breath and closing his eyes until the dull pain in his head subsided somewhat, and the trembling quieted down. When he opened his eyes to look around, nothing moved, and even the searchlights began to fade. He lay there for what seemed to be a long time after the lights died away, but nobody came for him. There was no more sound of guns being fired.

***

Lance Corporal Peter Markovic approached the tunnel’s exit, checked his gear one last time and made sure his position was being correctly transmitted so his movements could be traced. He was on lone duty, expecting a quiet night, but with nobody to clock him he had to rely on the built-in systems. Finding everything in order he stood at the bottom of the ladder leading up to the surface, waiting for this patrol time to start. He always arrived a few minutes early, not wanting to risk anything at the last moment. His behaviour was monitored, and he was sure that a record of keenness and punctuality would help any future promotion. He suppressed a yawn, mentally rehearsed his route once more, gave the voice command for the gear to report his departure, turned on his torch, then began climbing the ladder with slow, deliberate steps.

***

After a few more minutes of lying still, when he felt sure that nobody would find him, Jonas got up and instinctively reached for his only possession, a small photograph he carried in his pocket, only to discover it was gone. He crouched down and felt the ground with his hands for the little frameless picture. The grass was hard and crumbled under his palms into pieces of charcoal, but he felt nothing else. He got down on his knees and swept the ground with his aching hands, but the photograph was not there. Sweat broke out on his forehead.
What if I lost it on the other side?

Then something seemed to move far ahead in the darkness. Jonas stopped. He held his breath. Nothing. He looked for more movement, but only saw the motionless night. He began to crawl backwards slowly, and as carefully as he could, then pressed his back against the wall once again when he reached it and tried to stay still. Everything remained quiet, so he let out a shallow breath, thinking about risking to get up, when he felt a familiar texture under his palm. Jonas picked up the frayed piece of paper and kissed the treasured image with a deep sigh. It was the only thing left he could hold onto.

He put the photograph back into his pocket, then started to creep away from the wall, moving as slowly as he could. He dragged himself on shaky elbows, keeping his head close to the ground. He could feel the hardened grass crumble underneath him. He smelled burned leaves and smoke, mixed with a stinging chemical odour.

After a long crawl, Jonas finally crouched up and looked around. The towers were far away now, and there were no searchlights visible. He waited and listened. There was no movement. He tried his legs; his ankle still hurt, but he ignored the pain. He got up and started to run with a limp.

It’s over! At last! As he ran, he felt all the pain in his body melt away, his hunger subsided, and the feeling of cold and the dampness of the alien weather no longer bothered him. Jonas laughed, first just to himself, then out loud. He focused on gaining speed. He ran with heavy breaths and unsteady steps, but with the strength of determination and hope. He had almost forgotten what hope felt like, but now it was giving him life and making him light, urging him forward, making him feel that he could run forever. He ran into the darkness, into the freedom, into his new life, across the burned flatland, towards safety. The next moment he ran into a sudden sharp light and saw a soldier pointing a gun at him, shouting something he could not understand.

Chapter Seven

ONAS WAS sitting on the floor of the windowless prison cell the soldier had taken him and the other hostage to. He huddled up and kept his knees as close to his chest as he could, trying to keep himself warm. His ankle still hurt, he was aching with hunger, and the cold dampness of the night made him shiver.

The two white men were arguing between themselves now. Jonas watched in silence for a while, trying to make sense of it all, but he could not wrap his head around all that had happened, it was all too fast, too irrational. Everything is upside down! These people are mad! First, the soldier wanted to execute them both, and now he had brought Jonas and the other captive into a prison cell, and the two white men began arguing between themselves! What were they talking about? If the soldier wanted to kill them what was he waiting for? What good was it to lock them up there? And the heavy man with the light coloured hair, he now behaved like he was Jonas’s captor too. How am I now a prisoner of the other hostage? He was a hostage before! Nothing made sense and even Europe was a disappointment. He expected it to be safe, safer than Africa, but all he had found there was confusion and hostility.

Life in Africa was dangerous, but at least it was predictable. His village was protected by a cruel militia who kept other armed groups at bay. Their leader—who called himself ‘the general’ and always wore a flat red hat, going about with two machine guns to show how much more powerful he was than his soldiers—was a wise man despite his roughness. He made sure that the village provided the militia with livestock and grains and, in turn, they protected the people from armed robbers, and from the tribal fighters from the north, who regularly raided the land. Even though the general never let his soldiers push the people too far, their presence meant living in constant fear. They often kidnapped and raped women or killed the men just for the sake of showing their power. Looking back now, that life seemed more bearable than the cold hostility of this place, and these strange people.

When he had fled his village, Jonas had known nothing of this faraway land called Europe. All he had cared about then was to get to safety, and away from the vision of death and destruction still so fresh his mind seemed to clench on it like a fist. His heart was filled with shame and guilt, and his only thought was to run away, to go as far as he could. So he ran through inhospitable woods and crawled across barren wastelands with only dead stumps where trees once stood. He struggled through scars in the Earth, where mountains had been dug up for everything the land could offer, pressing on towards nothing, hiding from armed men, seeking refuge in forsaken mines and caves at night.

He passed though demolished towns and infertile plains blistered with burned-out tanks and armoured vehicles, scattered remains of flying death-machines and charcoaled human corpses, until one day there was only water in front of him, and he could not go on any longer. As despair, hunger and exhaustion overcame him, he finally lost himself in the darkness, listening to the waves of the great water he vaguely remembered was called the ocean.

When he came to, Jonas found himself in a camp in what was once called Gabon. The man who had found him and taken him in said it was safer inside. He told Jonas all about Europe, and the boats that took people there. He was also waiting for his turn, he said, for the ship to come and take him as well, away from the camp, and into the promise of safety.

The camp itself was like a huge open-air prison. There were so many people there, men, women and children, Jonas never thought could live in all of Africa. They took shelter in makeshift huts, all waiting for one of the ships that would take them away, often for many years. Some of them disappeared, never to be seen again, and there were rumours about other boats leaving secretly. Still, most people never talked about anything else but what they would do first upon arrival, how their life would be different once in Europe, how they would have nothing to fear anymore. They were filled with so much hope, Jonas soon began to feel some of it himself. The man who saved Jonas had paid the price the boat-people asked, well in advance. When he came down with malaria for the first time, he made Jonas promise to take his place on the ship in case the illness claimed him, so that the money would not be lost. Jonas was sceptical but saw no better way to get as far as he could from the memories that still haunted his dreams every night. Leaving the camp seemed as good as anything, so he promised he would go.

Food was scant, and their means of living meagre. Jonas never had any money, and his friend had spent all of his on the trip to Europe. Living near starvation meant he was sick more often as the time passed, but they could not afford any medicine. One night the fever finally took him, and Jonas buried his emaciated body, prayed for his tortured soul, then took the man’s place on the waiting list as he had promised.

When the ship finally arrived, it seemed bigger than any building he had ever seen. It must have once been a trading vessel of sorts, but now the cargo hold soon filled up with people, Jonas among them. Inside the light was scarce, and most of the time they travelled in thick darkness. They were to stay under decks, the smugglers said, it would be safer that way. After a few days, the smell of unwashed skin and human excrement had filled everything. After a few more days he had not even noticed it any more.

***

The sharp pain in his stomach reminded Jonas of his hunger, bringing his mind back to the present. He watched his two captors. They were still arguing, but they did not look violent. Jonas’s thoughts were more confused the hungrier he became. He had not eaten for days and had very little food for the past several weeks. The spasmodic pain from his stomach was now clouding his mind. Perhaps they cannot agree on what to do with me. One of them wants to kill me, the other wants to lock me up. Maybe he is a slaver, and he wants to sell me later.

Jonas was exhausted, his nerves shattered. He felt his eyelids close shut. He struggled to stay awake, afraid to lose himself in sleep. Who knew what would happen to him when he woke up. If he ever woke up again. Jonas still heard the distant voices of the white people. Sometimes they stopped talking, but then they started again. He must be a slaver…

He felt the fatigue overtake him, but could not completely let go of his consciousness. His mind was too exhausted to wind down, he floated between dream and reality. He heard distant voices, the thought of slavery still echoing in his head. In a half-dream, he saw his captor among the white slavers in Africa.

Jonas was slowly losing consciousness, sliding deeper into the numbness of sleep. His thoughts now mingled with dream-shapes, all forms and events lost meaning. He saw the face of his wife calling out to their children. Jonas smiled. How he had missed them! Then the children came running, blood gushing out of their slit throats.

He tried to turn to his wife, to warn her, but her expression was frozen, her eyes wide open, her mouth forming a soundless scream. Her mutilated body was covered in blood. Jonas shook her hard, but she would not move. Then he tried to scream, but he was crushed by the growing weight of his wife’s body.

He turned, and muttered to himself in his sleep, as his half-conscious dream was becoming more disturbing than reality. He saw a light-bearded white man in a flat red hat jump in front of a black soldier who appeared out of nowhere. Then the white man grabbed him and yelled at him. He was shouting, shaking him and shouting endlessly…

***

The American was shaking the illegal’s shoulders violently, shouting into its ears, “Get up! We need to move!”

Peter laughed to himself.

“What’s that for?” he said. “It does not understand a bloody word of anything.”

The American ignored him, and the illegal seemed to come to his senses. Peter looked away. The sight was disturbing; it looked like he was trying to bring a dying man back to life.

“OK, get up now, easy… That’s it. Find your balance,” he heard the American say.

As Peter turned to face them again, he saw the illegal slowly regain consciousness, and Alex helping it to its feet.

“All right, Mister Save-The-World,” said Peter in a determined voice, “it’s time to get moving. We have less than three minutes left before they make contact. And that’s only if my estimate is right. I’ll lead the way out, you follow closely. We aim for the nearest bush, there we make up plans.”

“OK,” said the American, but Peter was not listening.

He was vaguely aware of the other tugging on the illegal’s arm and starting after him. His senses were elsewhere now. He needed all his skills if he wanted to get them out of this alive, as the tunnels could quickly become a death trap. Peter stepped out of the room and listened. He heard men talking, and the heavy thumps of running military boots from far down the tunnels. From the sound of it, they were five or six corners away, which meant they still had a few minutes before the soldiers would catch up.

He climbed the ladder and peered out through the open trap door. All was clear, the night as quiet as he could hope for. He signalled to the American to follow. The illegal came out first, bewildered, half-conscious like he could not bring himself to fully wake up. Then Alex’s head appeared.

“Hurry up!” hissed Peter in what passed for a loud whisper.

Alex jumped out, and he closed the door slowly, careful not to make a sound. Peter detached a heavy, rubber-handled metal rod from his belt, and tried to block the trapdoor with it. It did not work, so the baton went back to its clip. He waved at the other two to follow, then started to run towards the north, the direction judged by experience. The others followed. Alex was keeping up, but the illegal seemed to have difficulties. The American dragged it by the arm, but it was causing more harm than good.

“Leave it behind!” said Peter in a hushed but hurried voice. “It’s only slowing us down! You’ll get us both killed!”

“No!” Alex sounded resolute. “He is coming with us.”

“Fine, then make him move.”

Peter still did not understand how anyone could so easily refer to an illegal as a human person, but this did not matter much now. Instead of arguing, he pressed on.

“I can see the edge of the Zone,” he said after a short while. “There seems to be a wooded patch there.”

Peter’s eyes were already accustomed to the darkness so he could make out what looked like the contours of bushes and trees. The American nodded, but he was struggling for air. The illegal moved silently beside him. Peter heard them panting as they ran. They had to move faster if they wanted to avoid detection. The troops would be coming up to the surface soon.

“Wait!” He heard Alex’s voice from behind him, it sounded both hushed and forceful at the same time.

“Come on, we have no time!” Peter urged in a loud whisper.

“Do you hear that?”

“No, but we’ve got to move,” Peter started to protest, but stopped short. There was a quiet whizzing noise, high pitched but barely audible, that was somehow coming closer. It took him a moment to place it.

“Drone!” he yelled, no longer caring who might hear them. “Run!”

They sped towards the darkness before them. He knew where they were headed, more or less, but could not see much in front of him, and he could not use his torch. Giving visual clues to the patrol probably already in pursuit was no option. They ran on, blindly. The whizzing came nearer; the drone was closing in. He heard a muffled thump and a moan. As he turned around, he saw the illegal lying on the ground, struggling to get up. The American did not seem to notice. Without thinking, Peter ran back, yanked the man up and prodded him into a run. The illegal limped but ran along.

There was shouting behind them, and small points of light started jumping up and down. The squadron has arrived, thought Peter. A machine gun coughed up somewhere near. In the meantime, the drone was getting closer. Its quadruple rotors now whizzed right beside them, relatively noiseless, but clearly audible. It was well within range of engagement too.

“Keep your heads down!” he shouted. “Run, run for god’s sake, run!”

They all did. Some shadows in front of them, thicker than the darkness around, grew larger and came into plainer sight. If they could reach those before the drone opened fire, they would probably have a chance.

The troops were still out of firing range. Their short barrelled assault rifles would only stand a chance if they altered the set-up, pulling out the retractable barrel from the body of the adaptive weapon, and changing the clips to those housing longer range ammunition.

Of course, they had no time for that, and this was their chance, but the drone was equipped with long range, heavy machineguns that would not miss from a great distance. What was strange was that it had not fired yet.

The drone whizzed several metres above their heads, apparently in circles, like it was trying to find the best position for lethal engagement. The thicket was in front of them. He heard gunshots and the squadron commander yelling orders behind them. Then he could hear the drone’s heavy machine guns click into focus.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

ergeant 1-15-FS, the leader of field squadron 15, had new orders. They were to engage at will. In his own judgement, the Captain’s previous orders had not made much sense from the beginning. They had never been on surveillance missions before. Life at the border was simple: They either killed them or captured them, but all this herding of fugitives was just too much fuss. Now that the firing order had finally come, they could go about their usual business. Pulling the trigger was the easiest solution, no questions, no captures, no need to be careful not to damage the goods. He had never questioned what they did with those he delivered, but he had his ideas. Anyway, this was none of his concern, especially not now. It would be a simple day; they’d shoot ‘em, and they would be excused for the rest of the morning. After a long night like that, all he needed was something strong to drink and a good day’s sleep.

He watched the pair run up towards them farther along the path. The Captain was at his usual game, expecting them to have the route map after the safe house, or so it seemed. Eventually, it had turned into a routine operation, only it was daytime now, which should make things even easier. The Captain no longer insisted upon the old radios so they could use the proper communicators with the encrypted channels, which was so much faster and so much more efficient. He turned on his device now.

“Command, this is Sergeant 1-15-FS. I am on station, and I have visual contact.”

“SG1-15-FS, this is Command. Acknowledged.”

“Awaiting orders, Captain.”

“Hold your position, Sergeant. Aerial engagement is expected at any moment. Stay out of the line of fire; you will be cleaning up the mess. Command out.”

The Sergeant put his communicator back into its shoulder holster. That’s just great! Bloody mess a drone can make! Those machine guns would tear the bodies to pieces. And who else, but him and his men, to make sure the mess did not stick. The Sergeant felt like a bloody janitor again. He looked at his boys. They had all heard the orders, and none of them seemed too happy about it. He wanted to say something encouraging but thought better of it. They would know he was bullshitting.

***

Jonas was running right behind the white man now. At last, they were of the same mind. They both knew the path was safe, and they ran as fast as they could. At the end of that path was a place of refuge, so the old lady had said. They must be near now! Freedom was in the air, he could smell it. They would make it, there was still hope!

Then he noticed the same whizzing sound he had heard before. Jonas would have paid no attention to it, but the white man stopped and turned, his expression filled with horror. He grabbed Jonas and hurled him between the trees, following right after with a leap. The next moment the trees exploded around them. Sharp splinters flew everywhere and trees fell, one by one. He was dragged by the white man towards what looked like a small hill. Jonas could not imagine why he wanted to go up there but had no better idea himself.

The white man then turned and jumped high enough to grab the lowest branch of a tree, and pulled himself up. What is he doing? Whatever chases us can cut down trees like grass! Jonas watched in bewilderment as the man climbed higher, then took out his gun and settled into a crouched position, waiting.

Jonas followed the man’s gaze and saw a flying machine, much like a helicopter, only with four engines. It had a small body with a big bulb in front, inside of which something was moving frantically. Underneath, there were the biggest machine guns he had ever seen in his life. And the guns pointed right at him.

“Are you crazy? You want to shoot that?”

He tried to shake the tree, but it was too thick.

“Get down, we have to run!”

But the white man was up there with a determined face, pointing his small gun at the weird helicopter. The machine guns coughed up again and, at the same time, the man began firing. Jonas threw himself behind the tree and to the ground.

***

The machine gun continued to fire, but its aim seemed to have been lost. Alex felt a deep thrill and satisfaction. I did it! He had never thought he would be able to pull it off; he had never used a gun under so much stress before. At the firing range, it was always quiet and easy, but his aim was agreeable even now. Out of the nine rounds he had fired, at least one had hit the drone’s camera. Alex was about to jump when the tree came crashing down, taking him with it.

The African was lying on the ground, shouting something. Alex pulled him up and dragged him behind a group of trees that were still intact. Alex pointed up at the drone that was now firing aimlessly, then at his own eyes. Then he made a gesture of shooting with his hands. He could not think of a better way to explain that the drone was now blind. He had shot its eye out. It was still dangerous, but at least they’d gained a slim advantage.

Still crouching, he started to crawl back towards the footpath. It was the only safe way he knew, and he was determined to continue on it, whatever might happen. At least the drone would not bother them now.

***

“Command, this is OP-20D,” said the drone operator into his mouthpiece.

“Come in, operator.”

“Captain, I have lost vital systems of the craft.”

“Explain!”

“I have lost the aiming mechanism and the night vision camera got damaged. The subject fired at it.”

“Fired? With what?” The Captain’s voice sounded impatient.

“A handgun, Sir. The shots were accurate. The craft received three hits. Two in the camera, the third took out the laser.”

The communicator remained silent. The operator felt hot. It was not his fault that the drones were not adequately protected. These machines had not been designed for real-time combat, or at least not against targets that were capable of firing back. This one had, however, and did it with high skill. The operator of drone number 20 felt that his career might depend on the outcome of this conversation. His palms were sweating.

“The situation is unusual,” said the Captain’s voice after a long break, “but your orders remain unchanged. Use manual aiming and visual contact. The subjects are to be disposed of as soon as possible. Command out.”

“Acknowledged, OP-20D out,” said the operator, but he was even more worried than before.

His training had, of course, included manual operation, but he had never shot at live, moving targets; the auto-aim laser was always handy for that. This would be his first time, and as such he suspected his career probably really did hang on the outcome.

He lowered his chair and put on the VR mask, which connected him to the drone’s camera and navigation systems, shutting out all outside stimuli, making him feel like he was flying. He switched to manual operation and took over the drone’s control. He really was flying.

***

Jonas’s vision was becoming blurred. He was using his last reserves of energy. They had been running for several minutes, and he felt his legs were giving out once again. Hope had sustained him so far, but since the strange helicopter had found them he doubted they would ever make it, and this doubt cost him dearly. He dragged himself along but was ready to collapse at any moment.

Running in front of him, the white man seemed to care little about whether he followed or not. The path wound before them, but the trees became more and more scarce. This worried him. No trees meant no shelter. Should another one of those flying machines find them, they would be an easy target out in the open. Yet Jonas knew they must not leave the path; this was the only safe way.

He heard gunshots from behind, but dared not look back. Whoever was firing was still far away. He ran on but then heard it again, from closer this time, accompanied by the now familiar whizzing sound. The helicopter was there.

The next moment bullets tore up the ground before them. He threw himself down. The hail of bullets ceased for a moment, so he got up. He saw the white man getting up in front of him, looking at the sky. He looked at Jonas, then looked up again. Then he jumped to the right. Jonas followed. Several paces in front of them the path was turning right too. The white man was making a short-cut through the woods. He is smart. This close to the path there might not be any explosives

They reached the path again, and another burst of fire erupted behind them. The trees to their right were being cut down as if a giant razor were shaving the land. The white man jumped to the left where the road was bending. Jonas was getting it now. They would cut down every turn so they can hide behind the trees. Maybe the helicopter wouldn’t see them there. The same happened at the next turn, but then the man stopped suddenly, and Jonas ran into him. His friend held up his hand, then pointed in front of him. Before them, some twenty paces forward, was a group of four soldiers with weapons raised and ready to fire, expecting to intercept them on the path ahead. If they came out from among the trees, they would be shot in an instant.

The next moment, the white man pushed Jonas down and showed with his hands that he should stay put. Jonas crouched, bewildered. He could not imagine what was happening, and it was all too fast for him to react. The white man got up and looked at the sky. The strange helicopter was upon them, and it opened fire again. His friend looked tense, every nerve in his body was almost visibly throbbing. He was looking up at the flying machine, then down to where the soldiers were waiting. The bullets were tearing up the ground around him, but he did not move.

Jonas wanted to shout at him to get down. He felt like jumping out to save him, but then the man broke into the most desperate run Jonas had ever seen. Bushes gave way under his weight. He was rushing straight towards the group of soldiers like a charging bull. His face was a grimace of death, his mouth wide open, his eyes fiercely fixed on their target, but no sound left his mouth. He was as silent as death. And he was bringing death, Jonas understood now. As the white man rapidly approached the soldiers who were just now becoming aware of his appearance, the hail of bullets coming from the drone’s machine guns surrounded him like a deathly halo. He was only five strides from the soldiers, who were already turning towards him with weapons raised. Four paces. Three…

***

Scout 30S was in position, awaiting orders. He had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and had taken up the best possible spot, as far from his targets’ route as possible, where he would not be seen, but he could still control at least forty metres of the footpath, just where it reached the road again. With the slightest turn, he could also see the road going up. He could really be prepared for anything from there.

He knew this was no common mission. A team had already been lost, and a patrolman had been murdered. He took extra care while concealing himself. He knew that even though his weapon and all his uniform were a perfect multi-scale dynamic camo that automatically adapted for the season and even the changes in the background, one with a keen eye would probably still be able to spot him, so he deployed the net and dug himself deep into the leaves of the undergrowth. He was now virtually invisible. A ghost. And he was about to make two more ghosts to haunt these woods.

His communicator beeped and the Captain’s voice came in, “30S, this is Command.”

“Sunray, this is Three-Zero-Sierra, receiving loud and clear. Go ahead.”

“We have an emergency situation. We have lost 15-FS.”

That is impossible!

“Falcon-One-Zero-Four! The entire team? Over.”

‘Falcon one zero four’ was one of those phrases he had always hoped to use once. It basically meant ‘what the fuck?’, but he never had expected to have such an appropriate situation for its first use.

“Affirmative. One of the targets lured the manually controlled drone, using the inaccuracy of the heavy machine guns without laser assistance. The collateral included the entire 15-FS.”

This was insane. That cunning motherfucker had turned their own weapons against them, but how?

“Roger so far, over.”

“You can lose the protocol now. Preserve it for radio communications. The situation is extremely serious. Subjects are armed, they have captured at least two submachine guns. Use maximum caution. They are headed in your direction, ETA under two minutes. OP-20D has been instructed to hold fire, you are safe to engage but wait for confirmation first. There is no need for more unnecessary casualties. Command out.”

“Wilco, wait two,” said the Scout 30S.

So they were coming armed. It would be so much more fun to take them out this way. Like in a real situation. Like real soldiers. With real weapons. He would have preferred to have the original order of engagement at will, but he was sure the confirmation would be timely. And it was cleaner this way, off his conscience and not his responsibility. Two minutes. He set his alarm to one minute and thirty seconds. Then he adjusted his eyepiece and began scanning the path.

The alarm soon went off. Three short, barely audible beeps, then it was silent again. They must be near. So they were. The two stumbling figures arrived exactly where he expected them to. One was a black illegal, skinny, his back bent. It limped on one ankle, its shoulder was bleeding. In its hand an army issue convertible submachine gun. The invader had stolen a weapon! But what followed was even worse. Clad in dark clothes, carrying a submachine gun in his right hand, his left arm hanging loose and bleeding, came the white scum.

He knew of HAs, he knew what they did, and he despised them for that. Helping the illegals to get across the border was enough to enrage a man like him to kill. Even though he was a part of the special operations too, he had never considered himself to be helping the invaders. He was merely following orders. But those ‘agents’ did just that. He would not think twice before pulling the trigger.

The subjects were approaching fast.

“Command, this is 30S. I’ve got a visual lock.”

There was no answer. The subjects were moving rapidly, and soon he would lose sight of them.

Now what?

He tried again. “Command, I’ve got a lock on the contact. Ready to engage. Requesting confirmation.”

Nothing. He tried for a third time, with no answer still. After the third attempt, he would engage at will, that was the previous order. If there was no confirmation, nor was his request denied within a reasonable time-frame, the last order was to take precedence.

He steadied himself, took a deep breath filling his lungs, then blew all the air out. He took three slow breaths to reach the zone. Then he adjusted the objective, fitting the focus to the lowered blood pressure that would affect his eyesight. He saw the sharp image of his targets. He was calm. He was ready.

He felt the trigger and focused on the fingertip. Now to find the perfect spot. The targets reached the road and stopped for a moment to look around. This would be it. He drew the final breath before engagement. He had to restrain the adrenalin from entering his blood with a conscious effort. The thrill of the kill must remain delayed.

He aimed at the illegal first; it was the primary target. The AI in his weapon’s aiming system automatically compensated for a precisely calculated projectile trajectory, based on environmental clues like estimated wind speed and direction along the projectile trajectory, the distance of the target, and real-time air movement at his location. All he needed to do was to hold it steady and fire at the right moment.

He slowly blew some air out and stopped midway, letting the rest of his breath hiss through his barely open mouth, slowly and evenly. He felt the trigger, squeezed it gently, barely moving it, and held it for a long moment right on the spot before it engaged the sensitive electric switch of the firing mechanism.

About the Author

Ishmael O. Ross is an author, technical writer and software architect. His stories appeared in The Scarlet Leaf Review and The Opiate magazines. Dire Redemption is his first novel.

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