Bad Blood, Part 1

Officially, I was retired.  I’d resigned my commission in 2001 and there was absolutely no reason why an ancient relic of forgotten wars like me should be anywhere near Afghanistan.  The kid next to me made me feel old- he was half my age, full of the eager, nervous energy of a fresh soldier for whom war is still a game.

 

If I had still been in the service, this fresh-faced boy would’ve outranked me, having acquired his captain’s pips just before starting this mission.  I had never bucked for an officer’s commission, myself, having achieved the rank of master sergeant and settled there with the accumulated weight of years.

 

My cybernetic eyes zoomed in suddenly on movement about three miles down the road.  I touched Smith’s shoulder and pointed; it would be too far for his purely natural eyes, especially in the pre-dawn light, but the kid nodded and settled himself on the ground, slipping his binoculars out and in front of him.  The beauty of our position and the distinct lack of direct light was that he could open the lenses on his binoculars all the way up without worrying about a reflection giving us away to countersnipers.

 

“I count three,” he breathed, his voice barely louder than the breeze stirring the grass around us, “We can pin them in the ruins.”

 

I raised my eyebrows editorially.  The kid had good instincts; I’d already planted demolition charges along the road and among several of the abandoned buildings.  Tactically, it was a good position for us, especially as their vehicles didn’t appear to be toting any mounted weapons or very much armor.

 

Still, it bothered me.  I knew the reason I’d been assigned this mission, but I hadn’t seen any evidence to make me believe that what we were doing was anything other than a wild goose chase.

 

“You sure about this, Cap?” I whispered back.

 

The kid grinned at me, teeth flashing white against the blackened greasepaint smears camouflaging his face.  “Trust me, Zed,” he said as the unlit jeeps pulled into the killbox.  He triggered the detonator, launching debris and a significant chunk of the roadway in front of the first vehicle.  “It’ll be fun!”

 

*****

 

The side of the armored police transport had been crushed and bent into nearly a half-circle where the ancient Cadillac had impacted.  The opposite side of the struck had split, spilling guards and prisoners into the shattered guts of an old apartment building on the downslope of Seraphim Hills.

 

In the years since I’d worked with him, I’d learned a bit about how Captain Sheldon Smith, also known as Recoil, was able to use his powers.  What I’d learned told me that this escape had required planning and precision- Recoil could increase and decrease the energy of a ballistic projectile, but he couldn’t affect something that was actively being propelled.  The degree to which he could affect a projectile’s energy was given mute testimony by the crumpled remains of the truck he’d been riding in and the car that had broken it.

 

I flicked my radio off.  Smith had been a sniper, too, and, all accounts said, a damn good one.  He would’ve chosen this ground to give him the best options according to his game- and his game was, now and always, killing.

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Last summer, offered a deal on commissions and I couldn't resist.  This is the first of two commissions, and it is awesome.

Zed and Recoil in .